Weakness
by HaloFin17
Summary: Achilles' heel is not his only weakness. An AU crossover between Troy and Second Age Middle Earth. Focal characters are Patroclus, Achilles and Gil-galad, but it also includes many others from both fandoms. Please enjoy, and feel free to review! COMPLETE!
1. Chapter 1

**Summary: **Achilles' heel is not his only weakness. A crossover between Troy and Second Age Middle Earth. Focal characters are Patroclus, Achilles and Gil-galad, but it also includes many others from the movie.

**Disclaimer: **I don't own Troy and I certainly don't anything related to Middle Earth - it's just way out of my league.

**Author's Note: **Wow, everybody, this is my first attempt at a crossover, so "cross" your fingers and wish me luck! I've had the idea for this story for a while, and I'm finally starting to actually write it. I have every intention of finishing it, but I don't know how long it might take. I hate to leave my readers hanging, and I promise I'll do the best I can. Kudos to **Whilom** and **Torilei **for their patience and support in this work - especially Whilom, who was gracious enough to read my rather long summary of the whole thing!

**Details (Please Read): **It is always crucial for an author and his or her readers to be on the same page, but in the case of this story, I feel it is especially important. Since this is a crossover, I hope here to clarify some of the finer details of how this is all going to work. Those of you who have read _The Lord of the Rings_, or better yet _The Silmarillion_, will be at a definite advantage in reading this fic, but I'm hoping to write it in such a way that even if you aren't too familiar with Tolkien's works, you can still follow the story.

Please note, this takes place during the Second Age of Middle Earth and therefore long before the events of LOTR, which occurred at the very end of the Third Age. For those who may not be familiar with the history, Gil-galad is the last High King of the Elves who fought in the Last Alliance along with Elendil and Isildur – think of the big battle during the prologue of the _Fellowship_ movie. Like Elendil, he was slain in combat with Sauron, and their deaths marked the end of the Second Age.

The basic premise in this story is that Greece and the city of Troy are both located in Middle Earth. If you will please reference a map of Middle Earth kindly provided for us by Prof. Tolkien, you will see that Gil-galad's rule was primarily focused in Lindon, very close to the Shire. But in this account, Greece and Troy are even further south than Minas Tirith. So much so, in fact, that they are off Tolkien's map entirely, and neither have had much interaction with the other peoples of their world. But the ocean there is the very same SunderingSea that borders all of Westernmost Middle Earth. Hence, Greece and Troy are just two more of the already varied cultures of Middle Earth. They are the same as we know and love them in the movie, and likewise, the Elves have not changed at all from the books' or movies' portrayal.

So with that said, I realize ahead of time that all the little details may not add up perfectly, but I hope that you can all allow me some room for human error and please remember that my main goal here is the development of some truly amazing characters. Enjoy!

**Chapter 1**

"Achilles! Achilles! Achilles!"

From where he stood near the prow of the ship, Patroclus could hear the impassioned cries of the Greek soldiers as they cheered their hero on in battle. He heard, but he did not join them. It was not fair! He should be out there with Achilles right now, fighting side-by-side with his cousin to take the indomitable Trojan beach. But no. Instead he stood here on the ship, watching the conflict from a safe distance.

_Safe._ How he despised the word! True, he understood and even appreciated his elder cousin's deep concern for him. It was touching, really, to know that the most feared warrior in all the world could be hindered by worry for him, a boy of little consequence and no exceptional talent, save what he had learned from Achilles himself. And in return, Patroclus loved his cousin dearly, idolizing him as his greatest hero.

But all the same, it was excruciating to be forced to sit back and watch while such great events unfolded right before his eyes. He was ready to fight! He may have yet been a bit slender at only seventeen, but he had a strong build and was taller than most men, including his cousin. And most importantly, Achilles himself had trained him, teaching him everything he knew until the two of them nearly mirrored one another when they sparred.

Patroclus roused himself from his thoughts and turned his attention to the commotion around him. Men leapt into the frothy ocean waters as more ships neared the beach, hauling the vessels further ashore with ropes. Tents already dotted the shoreline like stubborn flies with no intention of being batted away anytime soon.

Squinting his eyes against the glare of the sun, the boy could see dust rising from the steeds of Trojan soldiers as they made their hasty retreat back to the great city that dominated the distant landscape. And then, much closer, a far more welcome sight met his eyes, coming down the beach from the direction of Apollo's temple: Achilles.

A wide grin spread across Patroclus' face, despite his disappointment at not having been allowed to fight, and he jumped easily from the ship to head toward his cousin. Though he had many times seen Achilles' prowess in warfare firsthand, the young Greek still found himself overcome by a wave of relief whenever the older man returned from battle unscathed.

Achilles reached for him as they drew nearer, and Patroclus gladly walked into a quick embrace, not at all minding the sweaty, blood-stained arm that was slung across his shoulders as they walked along. Eudorus soon joined them.

"My lord," he called, falling into step with them on the other side of Achilles. "I have something to show you."

Achilles nodded his acknowledgment and broke away as they neared his tent, soon disappearing within. Eudorus remained just outside the entrance, no doubt elaborating further on whatever it was he had wanted Achilles to see. But Patroclus could guess easily enough.

"A girl?" he inquired when Eudorus had come near him once again.

Achilles' second-in-command nodded an affirmative. "From the temple."

The youth only shook his head. It was of no great importance to him. Achilles could do as he liked where those matters were concerned, but he himself had little such interests. At least, not at this moment in time.

"Was there any difficulty taking the beach?" he asked, eager to both change the subject and learn more about the battle.

"None worth mentioning," came Eudorus' reply. "There is rarely any great difficulty whenever your cousin fights."

Patroclus grinned at that and was about to respond, when suddenly the two men were approached by a messenger wearing the colors of the King of Kings.

"You are a captain of the Myrmidons, are you not?" he questioned Eudorus.

"I am."

"You will tell your Lord Achilles that King Agamemnon requests his presence as the kings gather to celebrate his victory today."

Eudorus appeared thoughtful before replying. "By 'his victory,' do you mean Achilles' victory?"

The messenger's eyes narrowed, glaring daggers at him, but Eudorus remained unperturbed. If anything, Patroclus thought his friend was taking a certain amount of pleasure in awaiting the other man's answer.

"You know who I mean," he snarled at last. "This victory belongs to King Agamemnon and no other."

"Yes, I've no doubt he'll make that abundantly clear. Let's just hope he doesn't give us soldiers any chance to debate him on the subject."

Finally at a loss for words, the flustered messenger hurriedly repeated the order demanding Achilles' presence and whirled away without once glancing behind.

Eudorus sighed and headed back to his commander's tent, sharing an amused glance with Patroclus. As much as they might loathe the sandal-licking scum that constituted the majority of Agamemnon's followers, the High King's orders were not to be dismissed lightly. And Achilles had been summoned.

Patroclus watched his cousin leave shortly thereafter, then went to help Eudorus and the other Myrmidons finish unloading the stores from their ship. And though they were kept quite busy in the time that followed, it was difficult to miss the two servants of Agamemnon who entered Achilles' tent without a word and began to forcefully drag the struggling girl back with them.

Patroclus immediately stepped forward to confront the men, for the sake of both Achilles and the girl, but he was held back by a strong hand on his forearm. The boy turned to stare at Eudorus in disbelief.

"Shouldn't we stop them?" he protested, making one last attempt to free his arm from that iron grip, but the older man just shook his head. Patroclus wanted desperately to argue further, but there was something in Eudorus' pale blue eyes that said he knew better. Perhaps it would be wisest this time to trust his companion's well-earned experience. Relenting at last, the boy meekly nodded his head and relaxed his arm, which was slowly released.

"Achilles isn't going to be happy about this, is he?"

Eudorus pursed his lips, seemingly deep in thought. "You would probably know better than I. But no, he won't be. I pity the fool who would dare take away anything Achilles holds dear."

Patroclus solemnly nodded his agreement, but he said no more.

* * *

Dusk was settling over his beloved city as Prince Hector of Troy sat by his father's side in what was sure to be the first of many war councils. The ramblings of the old priests and generals around him gradually faded into a distant hum of noise as his thoughts drifted back to Tecton and the Greek who had slain him outside Apollo's temple.

_A perfect throw,_ he mused, passing a hand over his weary eyes. _Impossible…_

"But are you certain he will come?"

The commanding voice of one of the city's elders broke abruptly into his reflections, and Hector snapped back to the present in time to hear his father's response.

"He will come," King Priam replied, his voice sure and firm. "Our ancestors faithfully served his father for years, long ago in the ancient lands of Dor-Lomin. He will come from the North to honor that old friendship, for his people hold such history in high regard. He _will _come."

There was little use arguing with such conviction, yet a ripple of discontented murmurings moved throughout the council. And Hector, in his heart of hearts, was inclined to share their skepticism. His father must have known he was right when he had said that they could not win this war alone, for Priam had immediately done what no Trojan royal before him had ever attempted. He had sent a request for military aid to an ally he'd never met, an ally whose only ties to the Trojans went back to a centuries-old friendship remembered by none still among the living. Only through faded manuscripts and ancient lore were these rumored allies known, yet Priam had asked for their assistance.

Of course, there was always hope; but they still had no way of knowing if their message had even been received, much less if the aid they sought would come. There had been no contact between these legendary people and the Trojans in many hundreds of years. History would have to be dear to them indeed if they would come this far from their homelands in the North to the aid of strangers, solely for the sake of honoring an alliance forged in another era.

Hector's gaze returned to the nearby window. It was almost dark now, the last lingering rays of the red sun looking like splashes of blood upon the distant ocean. The Trojan prince sighed. Why was it that all men seemed drawn to the Sea, to the West? It was almost as if there was something more, calling out to him. But as compelling as it was, there was also a sense of warning – that whatever may lie beyond the western horizon was forever forbidden to him, and to all mankind.

Suddenly, he was once again jolted out of his reverie by a loud noise, but this time, it came from a soldier who had rushed into the room, nearly breathless, and was now attempting to relay whatever urgent message he must have come to deliver.

"Here," he gasped, sucking in air. "He's here! They've come!"

Priam was on his feet in an instant. "Where? Where are they?"

"They are approaching the gate as we speak, my King."

"Come, quickly! We will meet them there." The elderly king motioned for his advisers to follow him, and soon all were hurrying down to the main gate of the city. Hector brought up the rear of their procession; for even while he longed to hope that all of this was real, doubt still had a strong foothold in his mind. But all doubts vanished like smoke in the wind when he finally pushed his way forward to join his father, and the wide gates swung open before them.

Into the city came a host unlike any Hector had ever seen before. They marched silently, not only in word, but in the manner of their movements. They seemed to glide effortlessly along the street, leaving no visible footprints in the sand behind them. Their garb was also foreign, for they were covered in clothing and armor from head to toe, despite the heat of the climate. And about their shoulders they wore cloaks of grey that shimmered as shadows in the twilight, rippling with every fluid motion.

Beautiful curved bows were in their hands, and swords lay strapped across their backs – all of them so exquisite that they appeared to be as fine works of art more than weaponry. Some in front carried long weapons that Hector could only assume were spears, for he had never before seen weapons of such making. And from these spears hung blue and silver banners that swayed in the gentle breeze with a gracefulness all their own.

The strangers' grey eyes shone like the very stars of heaven, and Hector found himself loath to long meet those piercing gazes. Their long hair fell past their shoulders, most locks dark like midnight, some others golden as the sun. They were tall, but the one who marched at their head stood taller than the rest. A cape of royal blue hung from his shoulders, and upon his head sat a golden circlet like a crown.

When his troops stopped behind him, he kept coming, and Priam eagerly stepped forward to meet him. They stopped a few paces apart, and the Trojan king inclined his head in solemn greeting.

"Welcome to Troy – Gil-galad, son of Fingon."

**Author's End Note: **So, that's the start. What do you think? Feedback and ideas are always very much appreciated! Thanks!


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary: **Achilles' heel is not his only weakness. An AU crossover between Troy and Second Age Middle Earth. Focal characters are Patrolcus, Achilles, and Gil-galad, but others from the movie are also included. Please enjoy, and feel free to review!

**Disclaimer: **I own no people, places, or things in this story. Wow, that's like the definition of a noun - my old grammar teacher would be so pleased!

**Author's Note: **My most heartfelt thanks to** Brandi**, **Torilei**, and **Whilom** for their enthusiastic reviews! You three offer the opinions that I most highly value, so I feel confident and complete in continuing this fic with your support. I love you guys, you're all awesome! So, there's a lot of talking in the chapter here, but it lays the necessary groundwork for what's to come. Please read on, and enjoy!

**Chapter 2**

"Elves?" Agamemnon was clearly less than impressed.

"Yes, Elves," King Odysseus of Ithaca insisted. "They've come here to assist the Trojans in honor of a friendship that once existed between Trojans' ancestors and the Elven King's father."

Agamemnon just shook his head and began to pace about his tent which was now occupied by every Greek king or commander with the exception of Achilles, who had blatantly refused to show his face unless Agamemnon returned the girl he had taken earlier that day. Not surprisingly, the King of Kings had adamantly refused.

"Elves," he repeated in obvious agitation, downing a rather large swig of his wine. "This war is turning into a child's fairy tale!"

"Is that all you know of Elves?" Odysseus questioned him. "That which you've heard in children's stories?"

Agamemnon faltered. "What else is there to know?" he retaliated at last. "_You_ certainly seem to know much about them, Odysseus. How is that?"

The Ithacan shrugged. "I suppose I've always taken a rather eager interest in such matters of history. There have not been any Elves in this part of the world for many centuries; but they are just as real as we are, and I've learned all I can concerning them. Although, I do admit I never believed such knowledge would be so useful in our present situation."

Agamemnon sighed. "How many are there? Let's at least start with that."

Old Nestor, the King's closest adviser, informed him, "Our scouts report that their host consists of no more than two hundred soldiers. It is presumed that they also came by ship, though we have not yet been able to locate the vessels."

"If their number is so few, why do we worry?" It was Ajax who spoke now, by far the strongest and most physically intimidating warrior in the Greek army. "There are over fifty thousand Greeks here. Two hundred more men behind Troy's walls will not be enough to save the city."

"It could be when these 'men' are Elves," Odysseus corrected him brusquely. "I confess even I'm surprised by their numbers, but these are no ordinary soldiers."

"Tell us more of them, Odysseus," Agamemnon commanded as he ceased his pacing and resumed his seat at the head of the gathering. "You certainly seem to be the expert."

If Odysseus was affected by the King's patronizing manner, he did not show it.

"Is it true that they cannot die?" This question was posed by Triopas, the recently conquered king of Thessaly. "For I have heard it said that they are immortal like the gods."

Odysseus hesitated, stroking his chin carefully. "They are immortal," he explained slowly, "in that they do not age or get sick as we do. But they can be slain in battle – by sword, by fire, by venom. Although it is my understanding that, overall, they are considerably more difficult to kill than men."

Menelaus, Agamemnon's brother and the slighted husband of Helen, inquired next. "What kind of warfare can we expect from them?"

"Like the Trojans, the Elves pride themselves in their archery," Odysseus began, leaning forward as though he were relating to them some long-forgotten secret or an epic tale of ages past. "In fact, it is quite possible they are even more skilled than the Trojans. The Elves, by their very nature, are simply stronger, faster, and more agile than men. But of course, that is not always the case." He nodded briefly toward Ajax as he spoke, but in truth, his thoughts were only with Achilles.

"They are also incredibly skilled swordsmen, capable of fighting with inhuman speed and precision, for their physical senses are far more enhanced than our own, and their sense of awareness heightened. I believe fighting them will prove very different from competing against another man."

"Do they fight with spears?" Ajax questioned, his face thoughtful as he considered these newest foes.

"Not with spears as we think of them," Odysseus answered, "for they are not meant to be thrown. The Elven spear, as I understand it, is approximately eight feet in total length. Six feet constitutes the shaft, and at the end is a curved two-foot long, single-edged blade. Their spear is essentially a short sword at the end of a very long stick, but in the right hands, it is almost invincible since no assailant can get close enough to strike a blow without first being cut down. It is exceedingly difficult to master, though do I believe it is the preferred weapon of Gil-galad himself."

Nestor frowned. "Gil-galad?"

"The High King of all the Elven realms and kingdoms," Odysseus elaborated, nodding. "He is to them what Agamemnon is to us Greeks."

Agamemnon grunted. "This is all very interesting, my friend, but what do you propose we do now that they are here?"

"I say we keep to our initial strategy, though perhaps with a bit more reservation. Only keep in mind that these Elves are not to be underestimated. And," he added with a pointed look at his superior, "I will speak with Achilles on the matter – try to persuade him to rejoin us with the temptation of a new challenge. Is there any message I might relay to him from you, my King?"

Agamemnon's face twisted into a nervous smile. "None whatsoever."

* * *

King Priam motioned for his two most prestigious guests to sit while wine and other refreshments were brought in for them and their troops, who were being graciously housed nearby.

"I trust your journey was well, friend Gil-galad?"

"Very well, thank you," the High Elven King answered with a courteous nod of his dark head. "Only very long. Our ships have been well concealed per your instructions, for which I must also thank you. I am pleased that you know your lands so well."

Priam smiled. "It was truly the least I could do. Your coming here is a gift from the gods themselves, and it is I who am in your debt. Though I must confess I had my doubts concerning your response. I am sorry."

Gil-galad only waved the words away. "There is no need for such an apology, good King Priam. Dor-Lomin was destroyed many centuries ago, and in all that time, there has been no contact between our two esteemed kingdoms. But I loved my father dearly and would honor his memory in any way I can."

"I respect such devotion," Priam said, nodding his understanding. "And now if you would introduce me to your companion here?"

Gil-galad turned to the silver-haired Elf who sat beside him and thus far had been silent throughout the entire conversation. He was also, interestingly enough, the only Elf of the company to have a beard.

"This is Cirdan the Shipwright, Lord of the Grey Havens," the Elf king explained with a warm smile. "He has been one of my oldest and dearest friends, and remains one of my most trusted counselors."

Cirdan and Priam exchanged greetings before Priam beckoned for the three men behind him to step forward.

"These are my sons, Princes Hector and Paris." The old king beamed. "Hector is the pride of our city's army, the finest warrior I have seen in my lifetime. And this is my chief general, Glaucus, who has fought with me through every war I've known. I owe him my life many times over."

Gil-galad rose and bowed his head, simultaneously placing a hand over his heart. "Well met, to all of you."

"Likewise," Hector said as he bowed with the others in return, though rather stiffly, and it did not escape the Elf king's notice.

"Something troubles you, Prince Hector?" he inquired, raising an eyebrow.

Hector longed to answer, but instead the intensity of the bright grey eyes made him want to squirm. It was almost as if they were piercing his flesh to see straight through him.

"You need not be afraid, young Prince." The Elf's voice was gentle, drawing out Hector's will to speak. "If something about our arrival concerns you, I would know it."

"Thank you," the Trojan prince began, feeling some of his anxiety wear off. At least he had been openly invited to speak his mind. "My only concern, my lord, is why you have come with so few men. I realize your abilities must be superior to ours, but less than two hundred Elves cannot be sufficient against the Greek masses that now hold our beach."

"Hector, show respect to our allies," Priam chastised his son, his brow furrowed in a deep frown.

"It is of no concern, my friend," Gil-galad broke in. "For you should be well aware right now that I have not come to aid this city through strength of arms."

Now it was Priam's turn to balk. "You have not?"

"No. My purpose in coming here is primarily to offer assistance in the area of military strategy." Glaucus opened his mouth as though to offer an objection, but Gil-galad continued unhindered. "No doubt you believe yourselves quite capable in this regard, and I shall respect your input. However, there are some things learned over centuries of warfare that no mortals can truly comprehend."

When the men present could make no counter to his argument, the Elf King elaborated further.

"As for your specific concerns, Prince Hector, I would, in all honesty, rather have my two hundred soldiers at my back than this city's entire army. I pray you take no offense, my friend – it is simply the truth."

But Hector shook his head, disbelieving. "I cannot see the logic in that statement. In a true battle, our archers would have all your men lying in the dust within minutes."

Gil-galad only smiled. "I think not. With all due respect to your own troops, my archers would out-shoot your own. Again, I mean no offense, but this is the truth."

Out of the corner of his eye, Hector saw Paris shift uncomfortably and understood completely. His younger brother was extremely proud of his skill with a bow, for indeed it was the only area of battle in which he excelled. The elder prince frowned. Perhaps this alliance would not go quite as smoothly as his father had hoped. But Priam, a diplomat as always, was already working to smooth out the tension.

"Any help you might offer will be greatly appreciated, my friend," he said to Gil-galad. "And would you now deign to share with us any plans you may already have in store for this war?"

"There won't be a war." All eyes now turned to Paris, who had spoken for the first time that evening. "This is not a conflict of nations," he went on, the words coming out rather rushed. "It is a dispute between two men. And I don't want to see another Trojan die because of me."

"Paris…" Priam's tone was one of warning, but his son went on undaunted.

"Tomorrow I will challenge Menelaus for the right to Helen. The winner will take her home, and the loser will burn before nightfall."

The young prince then hurriedly offered an awkward bow and fled the room, leaving the others in stunned silence behind him.

* * *

"If the boy goes through with his plan, we may indeed be gone from this place in short order," Cirdan later observed in the beautiful, lilting language of the Eldar as he and Gil-galad returned to the lodgings that had been previously assigned to them.

"I hope so," the dark-haired Elf replied, his voice low. "I trust Elrond with everything I have, but all the same, I wish to return home as quickly as possible. My unease has only grown since we first left Lindon, though I do not understand why. Surely you have felt it also, my old friend?"

"Yea, I have," Cirdan concurred, passing a hand over his silver beard. "And I agree it would be wise to spend as little time here as possible. To tell the truth, I was surprised when you decided to come in person, rather than sending Elrond in your stead."

"That possibility did occur to me," Gil-galad confessed quietly. "But it is _my_ father whose legacy brings us here, and I would be ashamed, Cirdan, to allow anyone else this honor."

The ancient shipwright nodded wordlessly in reply, but the Noldorin king knew from experience that his dear mentor was pleased with his words. The two friends continued their walk in the silence of their own thoughts until they came into Gil-galad's chambers, and the younger Elf could contain himself no longer.

"A woman!" he exclaimed suddenly, though Cirdan showed little surprise at the outburst. He simply looked on in quiet amusement while his former charge paced the room and raved on. "This entire war is being fought over _one woman_! I cannot believe we have been brought here for something so trivial."

"You should not be so quick to judge, Ereinion," Cirdan scolded gently. "You may recall that we once waged war over nothing more than three jewels. And I can promise you that war was far more devastating than this one could ever possibly be."

Gil-galad sighed, his patience wearing thin. "I know that, Cirdan. But you may also recall that I had no part whatsoever in instigating that particular conflict."

"Neither did I, young one." Cirdan's gaze grew distant, and the old Elf smiled sadly. "Neither did I."

**Author's End Note: **Sorry, there'll be more Achilles and Patroclus in the next chapter, I promise! Unfortunately, that hasn't been started yet, but I don't anticipate the next update being any longer than one week. Thanks, I'll talk to you all soon!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary: **Achilles' heel is not his only weakness. An AU crossover between Troy and Second Age Middle Earth. Focal characters are Patroclus, Achilles, and Gil-galad, but also includes others from the respective stories.

**Disclaimer:** I still don't own anybody, although I can always hope.

**Author's Note:** Wow, I am honestly shocked at how quickly my brain is cranking out these chapters. But I think it also signifies that this will be a rather lengthy literary project. Oh well, I'm sure you guys won't mind! And on that note, it's time for another "shameless plug" going out to **Tori**, **Whilom**, and **Brandi**! Even with no reviewers, I would still want to finish this for my own peace of mind, but you guys really make the whole experience that much more enjoyable! Hugs to all of you! Now, as promised, we've got some good interaction with Achilles, Patrolcus, and later Odysseus in this chapter. So please do enjoy, I look forward to hearing from you!

**Chapter 3**

The following morning, the Trojan beach teemed with the swarming masses of men preparing for battle; but one section of the beach seemed unnaturally still, a stillness layered by tension that hung overhead like an invisible cloud. The Myrmidons were ready for war, as indeed they always were, but their fearless leader was nowhere to be seen.

Armor fully donned, Eudorus started toward his lord's tent but shortly found his path intercepted by Patroclus, who was likewise battle-ready. The youth made known his request with eyes alone, and Eudorus silently nodded his assent, motioning for the boy to follow him as they pushed the tent-flaps aside and cautiously entered the shelter.

In the dim light, they found Achilles reclining easily off to one side, a goblet of wine in one hand. He did not look up when they entered, only persisted in the stony glare he directed at the back wall of the hut.

Eudorus gently cleared his throat to announce their presence. "My lord, the armies are marching," he informed his superior.

"Let them march. We stay." The warlord's voice was as hard and cold as his steely blue eyes, but still he did not look at the newcomers.

"But the men are ready," Eudorus persisted, only to have his protests cut short as Achilles finally turned to them.

"We stay until Agamemnon groans to have Achilles back!"

All too well did Eudorus know that tone, and he wisely conceded. "As you wish, my lord."

Achilles' captain then offered a brief bow and turned to go, sharing a knowing glance with Patroclus. There would be no arguing with Achilles this time, as they both knew him well enough to be sure of that. But when the blonde youth made no move to follow him out, Eudorus simply retreated by himself, leaving Patroclus alone with his esteemed cousin.

Meanwhile, Achilles had sat up, throwing the remainder of his wine onto the dying fire in his frustration, but he turned to acknowledge his younger cousin when the boy stepped forward, no doubt putting forth a greater display of boldness than he truly felt. Achilles let the silence linger.

"Are you ready to fight?" he questioned at last, his tone admittedly harsher than he would perhaps have liked. "Are you ready to kill, to take life?"

"I am." Patroclus nodded his affirmative, and his voice, though soft, was firm.

Unfortunately for him, however, Achilles was not impressed. He knew the boy before him well, and his instincts detected the slightest of tremors in the younger man's surprisingly deep voice – cleverly concealed beneath his assertiveness, but present nonetheless.

There was no denying it, though. Patroclus wanted to fight, and it was only Achilles' word that restrained him from doing so. Knowing that he would need to be firm, yet loath to earn his cousin's resentment, the more experienced warrior opted for a different approach.

"At night, I see their faces," he began, glancing away once more, "all the men I've killed. They're standing there on the far bank of the River Styx. They're waiting for me."

He paused, turning back to Patroclus and noting that his efforts were achieving at least some of the desired effects, for there was a new tenseness about the boy, his jaw taut.

"They say, 'Welcome, Brother'."

The two warriors locked gazes then, Achilles' eyes unyielding, and his cousin's bright with an intensity the older man had grown all too familiar with over the years, learning to recognize it as extreme discomfort.

Achilles first broke away from the contact and commented, almost to himself, "We men are wretched things." Then, abruptly letting out a frustrated sigh, he added, "I taught you _how_ to fight, but I never did teach you _why_ to fight."

"I fight for you." Patroclus' reply was immediate, as though that answer should have been obvious.

"And who will you fight for when I'm gone?"

The boy had no answer for that, only swallowed hard and stared upward at nothing in particular.

"Soldiers, they fight for kings they've never even met," Achilles elaborated, his frustration audible. "They do what they're told to do, they die when they're told to die."

"Soldiers obey." Again, the boy's retort came without hesitation, and Achilles frowned as he sought to gain his cousin's understanding.

"Don't waste your life following some fool's orders," he muttered darkly, but that didn't seem to have any more success in connecting with the stubborn teenager. When Patrolcus remained silent, Achilles waved him away.

"Go," he ordered brusquely, settling back on the couch.

The boy didn't budge. Achilles sighed deeply and threw up his hands as he returned the youth's penetrating stare. Those blue eyes were strong, but still so sensitive, and so vulnerable. He was young – too young. And the greatest warrior in the world would not have this child's innocence stained by seeing him follow too soon in the footsteps of his revered cousin. No glory was worth that.

So when Patroclus finally turned to go, Achilles stopped him with a soft-spoken command. "Wait."

The boy froze, only his eyes traveling back to the famed warrior.

Achilles leaned forward and stretched out an arm, beckoning the younger man to join him. "Come here."

Patroclus came silently, kneeling down in the sand beside his cousin. He did not resist the strong hand that was laid upon his shoulder.

"Patroclus," Achilles began slowly, "you must understand this. You know that I hold you back only because I'm not yet comfortable letting you into battle on your own."

"But you'll never be 'comfortable' with it!" Patroclus shot back with a trace of bitterness. "Cousin, I know you mean well, but you cannot shelter me forever."

Achilles' grip on his shoulder tightened. "You are young, Patroclus, and your time will come. But it is not now. When you are truly ready, I will know. Trust me," he pleaded earnestly, and though Patroclus no longer argued, he was clearly still resistant.

But Achilles son of Peleus was not one to be swayed, so the boy wordlessly nodded his compliance. He may not understand his guardian at all times, and he certainly may not agree with him, but there was little else to be done at this point.

Achilles' hand moved from the boy's shoulder to the back of his head, gently stroking the dark blonde hair with all the affection of a concerned parent. "I could not bear it if anything were to happen to you, cousin. Go now," he repeated, and this time, there was no objection as Patroclus rose, dusted the sand from his knees, and left Achilles to brood in solitude.

* * *

Odysseus approached Achilles' tent just in time to see the Myrmidon lord's young cousin depart from it, the boy's slumped shoulders and lagging gait suggesting that the previous encounter had been somewhat less than constructive. Yet the Ithacan king was on a mission of his own, one which could not wait for even the great Achilles to be in a more agreeable mood.

Odysseus stopped outside the tent's entrance. "Achilles?"

"Come in," came the disembodied reply.

Odysseus stepped inside, and the golden warrior of the Greeks actually smiled to see him, at once motioning for the older king to sit and offering him something to drink. Odysseus accepted the cup and returned the smile, mentioning his thanks, but Achilles waved it off.

"You are always welcome, my friend," the legendary hero assured him. "But I know why you are here, and it will do no good." Achilles' smile turned into a smirk. "You really ought to let that thief Agamemnon speak for himself sometime. It would do him good to actually deal with the consequences of his despicable actions."

Odysseus seemed entirely unfazed. "You have not yet even heard my argument," he countered, once he was certain Achilles had finished.

"There is no need," the other replied adamantly. "I will not return to fight – not unless Agamemnon will give the girl back to me and swear he never touched her. Is he prepared to do this?"

The Ithacan slowly rubbed his bearded chin. "No. He still refuses to settle the debate between the two of you."

"Then why should I do anything to aid him?"

"Because your fame as the greatest warrior in the world is in jeopardy. You do wish history to remember you as such, do you not?"

Achilles snorted softly. "I have seen Hector fight, and I know already that I need not fear him as any threat to my glory."

"But it was not Prince Hector to whom I was referring," Odysseus informed him gently.

"Then you mean the Elf King? Indeed, I have already heard the men speak of him as though he were Ares himself." The son of Peleus regarded his friend closely. "Why do you fill their ears with such tales? To arouse my jealousy, perhaps? Yet have you not considered that if I still refuse to fight, the rest of your soldiers will be too fearful to confront him themselves?"

"And well they should be," Odysseus interjected firmly. "Gil-galad is descended from a line of kings far greater than we can imagine. _You_, Achilles, are the only one among us who might be able to defeat him."

Achilles raised an eyebrow. "Only 'might,' my friend?" When his companion offered no comment, he added, "What about Ajax?"

"Ajax lacks your speed," Odysseus patiently explained. "I would want him by my side in any battle, but even he would not last long against their spears. We need _you_, Achilles."

But Achilles, staring blankly at the wall of the small hut, made no answer, and Odysseus sighed. It was time to switch tactics.

"I have heard that you once remarked on what a fantastic sight it would be to find a king who fought his own battles. Well, my friend, now is your chance – not only to see such a king, but no doubt even to fight him yourself."

Achilles held back a sneer. "And this is supposed to tempt me?"

"Does it not?"

"Not at all. This Elf King – Gil-galad, as I believe you named him – has done nothing to harm me, nothing at all to deserve my enmity. If anything, Odysseus, I should feel guilty for having deprived the world of so rare a phenomenon."

Odysseus shook his head. "Achilles, you amaze me," he chuckled. "And while I can see that this conversation has done little to alter your intentions, I do hope you will reconsider. We need you."

"So you've already told me. But I want to hear Agamemnon himself say so."

The older man sighed, nodding, and suddenly he looked very weary. So, they had reached an impasse after all; he should not have expected anything different. After bidding Achilles farewell, Odysseus reluctantly took his leave.

But as he left, the Ithacan couldn't help but notice the familiar blonde young man who sat in the sand just outside the shelter's entrance. He had heard everything, no doubt. Odysseus simply nodded an acknowledgement when the boy looked up at him, then slowly made his way back to march with his own troops into the impending battle.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary: **Achilles' heel is not his only weakness. An AU crossover between Troy and Second Age Middle Earth. Focal characters include Patroclus, Achilles, and Gil-galad, along with many others from both stories.

**Disclaimer: **I don't anyone or anything from Troy or the Tolkien universe. Man, I can tell this is gonna get old before long.

**Author's Note: **Ok, here's take two! I tried to get this up last night, and FFnet was being dumb again, so now I'm back for another try. Well, I realize there may not be too much original stuff in this chapter, but it is necessary for the development of the story. Although I know I can count on my ever-faithful reviewers and friends: **Brandi**, **Whilom**, and **Tori**, to correct me if I get too far off track. Hugs to all of you, you guys are the best! And special thanks to Tori for two nights of serious brainstorming which produced some great ideas to be seen later in this story, as well as some groundbreaking insights for her own new Troy fic, which I cannot wait for! So, hopefully this chapter at least keeps you entertained - enjoy!

**Chapter 4**

Ereinion Gil-galad stood in full armor on the tower balcony with the other Trojan nobles. Many times they had offered him a place to sit, but he had just as persistently declined. He preferred to stand, to pace if necessary, while the battle before them commenced. Priam and his advisers were there, as were Andromache, the elegant wife of Prince Hector, and Helen, whose beauty had brought a thousand ships to the shores of Troy.

And she _was_ beautiful, there was little denying that. There was a glow about her that reminded Gil-galad of his kinsmen in the Golden House of Finarfin, including the fair Lady Galadriel. But the woman near him now was mortal in every sense, and her beauty was at its zenith, only to decay from this moment onward. The beauty of the Elder Children, however, did not fade so easily.

A swish of white caught the High King's eye as Helen walked past him and was seated beside Priam. She seemed anxious, and with good reason. Paris, her lover, was no warrior, yet he had offered to end the conflict by settling his dispute with Menelaus in single combat. And as far as any of them knew, that plan had not changed.

Gil-galad laid a gloved hand on the low stone wall in front of him and once more surveyed the scene below. The Trojan army was lined up in formation in front of the main gate, facing the distant Sea. It was preferable, he had explained to his mortal allies, to meet the Greeks outside the city in open combat rather than to hide behind the walls until their enemies were right on top of them.

His own troops, however, were waiting behind the walls with Cirdan, ready to offer support through archery alone if the need arose. The Trojans had initially protested the fact that their newfound Elven friends would not be joining them in the front of battle, but Gil-galad was adamant. He wanted to see exactly how well the Trojans could defend themselves on their own before allowing himself or his soldiers to become involved. Besides, he would require a keen understanding of the situation if he wanted to properly aid the Trojans and still return to his own lands in a timely fashion.

The Elf King sighed wistfully as he allowed his gaze to drift northward – toward home. He could not explain it, but something was amiss there. Indeed, there were no grounds whatsoever for his misgivings; for all in Lindon was peaceful, and the Elven smiths in Eregion were prospering greatly under the instruction of their new teacher, a being who called himself "Annatar," Lord of Gifts.

Gil-galad's bright eyes narrowed as he once again considered this newcomer. Annatar appeared friendly enough and had offered profound insight into the works of his fellow smiths, the Mirdain. But when the "Lord of Gifts" had come himself to Lindon, the High King of the Elves had blatantly turned him away. The Mirdain had been furious when they had heard what he'd done, his distant kinsman and Lord of Eregion, Celebrimbor, not the least so. But it did not matter. He did not trust this Annatar, and he would not jeopardize his kingdom by allowing a powerful, smooth-talking stranger within its borders.

Just then, the King's attention was turned back toward the Sea by a cloud of dust that had begun rising in the distance. His mortal companions could not yet see it, but this came as no surprise. It wasn't long, however, before a wave of apprehensive murmurings rippled through them all as the cloud steadily grew larger. The Greeks were coming.

It was truly a sight to behold as the swarming mass of soldiers crept forward like a thick syrup, slowly yet surely inching their way toward the city until they finally stood in formation only a short distance from the Trojan lines. The morning sun beat down heavily upon both sides, and Gil-galad couldn't help but chuckle to himself at the irony of it all.

If his understanding thus far was correct, warfare here would prove entirely different from what his people were accustomed to. Here, battles were actually brought to a halt when night fell, and a time of peace extended so that both armies could gather their fallen. But where the Elves came from, a battle was not begun until nightfall, only to reach its most ferocious point in the darkest hour. And the dead? The dead were mutilated beyond recognition, that those who survived might come to fear their enemies all the more.

Back on the front lines, Hector and Paris were speaking with Agamemnon and the other Greek kings. And Gil-galad was forced to admit his surprise when they finally withdrew, leaving only Paris and Menelaus to duel out their devotion to the lovely woman they both would claim.

The Elf gave a barely noticeable shake of his head. So the boy had been earnest in his declarations, then? His boldness was indeed commendable, but in all reality, he had little chance of emerging victorious.

The other Trojans present must have subconsciously agreed with him, for there was a mounting tension on the balcony as the fight began, and it was soon evident why. Paris was losing, and miserably so. Menelaus had already been given ample opportunity to kill the young prince, yet the Greek refrained, no doubt enjoying his heartless game of cat-and-mouse.

At last, Paris scored a blow of his own, which only succeeded in angering Menelaus further, and the older man finally struck out with a vengeance, wounding the boy in the leg and knocking him to the ground. Priam and Helen were both on their feet in an instant, coming up to the ledge beside the Elf King as they watched their loved one struggle to crawl away from his attacker.

Menelaus was shouting at his retreating opponent, but at such great distance, the words were unintelligible. Paris continued to withdraw, moving as quickly as his injured leg would allow, until at last he lay at his brother's feet and clung desperately to his leg as though it were a pillar of safety.

"Fight him, Son," Priam whispered, his face drawn in equal concern for his child's life and honor. Helen, on her part, was gripping the stone ledge until her knuckles turned white with the exertion. And Gil-galad only watched impassively, this time not at all surprised when Hector suddenly drew his own sword and thrust it straight through Menelaus' chest, just as the other man was about deliver the killing blow to his brother.

There was a brief moment of breathless stillness on both sides then, before Agamemnon uttered an enraged cry, and the Greek hordes charged madly forward. The Trojan soldiers raised their shields, bracing themselves to meet the oncoming assault.

And the High King of the Elves sighed. So much for a quick resolution.

* * *

Meanwhile, the Myrmidons observed the engaging battle from a different vantage point. They stood atop a high cliff on the north side of the battlefield, their war gear long discarded. It had been Eudorus who first suggested they seek out a place from which they would be able to see the battle, and Patroclus had eagerly agreed, while most of the other Myrmidons followed out of a mixture of curiosity and sheer boredom.

Eudorus felt his young friend stiffen beside him when they watched Menelaus fall to the sand, but before any words could pass between them, Patroclus whirled around suddenly to stare at something behind them. Eudorus followed his gaze, momentarily fearful that the boy might have heard some stealthy predator creeping along the rocks; but instead, his eyes rested on the unmoving figure of Achilles, silhouetted against the clear blue sky. Who knew how long he had been there with them, watching in perfect silence?

But Achilles gave them no acknowledgment. His eyes were locked on the battle below, face set in an expression of stone as the armies at last collided in a tangled forest of spears and shields. The Greeks had the advantage of numbers, but the Trojans held fast to their formation and withstood the onslaught.

Patroclus' soft voice broke into Eudorus' silent musings. "The Elves aren't fighting today, either – just like us."

The older man turned to regard his young companion, his expression bordering on one of amusement. "Are you disappointed?"

"Only a little," the boy replied with a shrug. "I just would have liked to see Gil-galad fight."

Eudorus grunted softly. "I see you've been listening to Odysseus. But I wouldn't give up all hope of that just yet. You may very well have your chance ere long."

Patroclus grinned and opened his mouth to reply, but he was interrupted by an outburst from his cousin.

"Get 'em in line!" Achilles was shouting to no one in particular, his frustration evident as he began to pace like a caged lion just above them.

"The men are too close to the walls," Eudorus explained, leaning over toward Patroclus. He pointed to the city battlements. "We're in range of their archers, and far too many of our countrymen are dying long before they even see the Trojan ranks."

Patroclus frowned. "But if we can't get near the walls, how are we supposed to take the city?"

The older Myrmidon hesitated for a long moment, then sighed. "I don't know," he confessed at last. "And I don't think Agamemnon does, either."

They continued to watch the battle in silence for a time, but their attention was soon drawn to the developing conflict between Ajax and Prince Hector himself, the two greatest warriors on either side now that Achilles and Gil-galad were both absent.

Eudorus could almost feel the young man next to him fidgeting anxiously as he watched the fierce combat, but it was impossible to miss the look of stunned shock that fell across his face when mighty Ajax was brought down to the dust.

And yet that proved to be just the beginning. From that point on, chaos dominated the Greek forces, and the Myrmidons could only watch in dismay as a clear retreat was called for, the men all but trampling each other in their frenzied attempts to return to the safety of the ships.

Disgusted beyond reason, Achilles likewise deserted his view of the combat, and his men watched him go, urgently noting to themselves that it would not be at all wise to approach their lord any time in the near future.

"On second thought," Eudorus dryly commented while his crystal blue eyes remained focused on the field of battle, "you may not have the opportunity to see Gil-galad fight after all, Patroclus. For it would seem the Trojans have no great need of him."

And from within the security of Troy's walls, unbeknownst to the two Greeks, Gil-galad himself agreed.

**Author's End Note: **Ok, now that we've got all that out of the way, the central plot of the story can really begin to take shape. If all goes according to plan, the next chapter should really get the ball rolling. Yay! Luv you guys, ttyl!


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary: **Achilles' heel is not his only weakness. An AU crossover between Troy and Second Age Middle Earth. Focal characters include Patroclus, Achilles, and Gil-galad, along with many others from both stories.

**Disclaimer: **As I've said before, none of the characters or places are mine. I'm just trying some new ideas with them.

**Author's Note: **Happy days, things are really started in motion now! And a special shout-out to the newest reviewer of this fic, **lozvamp**. Thanks a bunch! And of course, my warmest thanks to **Brandi, Whilom, **and **Tori** for their ideas and support! Especially Tori, who's brought a breath of fresh air to this story! Luv ya lots, chica chee! Well, there's not much else to say, except that I'm glad I was able to get this chapter up before the end of the weekend. Hopefully the next one won't be too long either. Enjoy, I'll talk to you all later!

**Chapter 5**

"Cirdan!"

The silver-haired shipwright turned and bowed his head to acknowledge his King's approach.

"What do you make of all this?" the younger Elf asked, coming up beside his old mentor.

Cirdan cocked one bushy eyebrow. "You had a far better view of the battle than I, Ereinion; why should you require my counsel?"

Gil-galad laughed. "Indeed, my friend, some things in this world never change! Why must you always be so impossible?"

Cirdan looked affronted. "Me – impossible? Not at all, young one. I am simply repaying you for some of the delightful stubbornness you've shown me over the years."

The dark-haired Elf just shook his head in reply, for he knew there could be no argument against that particular statement. Best perhaps to just get back to business.

"How many arrows did we shoot from start to finish?" he questioned.

"Not one," came Cirdan's simple response. "And yet the Trojans seem to have won with surprising ease."

"Indeed." Gil-galad let out a quick sigh and stared long at the imposing wall before them. "Why are we here, Cirdan?"

"We are here, Ereinion, because these people asked that you honor the service of their ancestors to your father, Fingon the Valiant, by aiding them against their enemies. And you agreed."

The younger Elf feigned annoyance. "Yes, I am well aware of that, thank you. You see, you are impossible, at least as much as I am. In fact, I would even say it was your mannerisms that rubbed off on me in the first place. But, Cirdan, I agreed to come here only because I was under the impression that they truly needed our help. The events of today clearly disprove that assumption."

"And yet the Trojans may not want to see us leave until this war is completely over."

"We cannot wait that long," Gil-galad replied firmly. "I _will_ not wait that long."

Cirdan regarded him quietly for a moment. "Then I suggest you speak with the Trojans on the matter. And soon."

The Elven King nodded. "Priam has called for another war council later this afternoon, once his generals and Prince Hector have returned from the battlefield. I will bring up the issue then."

With that, the two comrades joined their fellow Elves in the short march back to their chambers.

* * *

"You speak of leaving so soon, my friend?" King Priam appeared genuinely shocked.

Gil-galad nodded a slow affirmative. "Your victory today, good Priam, was most decisive, and achieved entirely without our interference." He turned to address the rest of the council. "If you will but continue to fight as you did today – a purely defensive strategy, waiting for the Greeks to attack you first and then pushing them back – I see no reason whatsoever why you should lose."

One of the Trojan advisers rose from his seat. "The Greeks outnumber us two to one. That alone should be reason enough for us to fear them."

"They may outnumber you, yes," the Elf replied, and it seemed then that his voice lowered, concealing traces of bitterness and pain as he went on. "But I know all too well what is required to take a fortress of this magnitude, and I promise you, Agamemnon has not come prepared for such a feat. He has no chance of conquering this city unless you are foolish enough to hand it over to him on a silver platter."

The city elders stirred at this, murmuring discontentedly amongst themselves, yet Gil-galad continued.

"Fight only to defend yourselves, and the Greeks will grow weary after suffering so many defeats without a victory. Surely they will depart of their own accord, for they cannot breach these walls. If today's battle was a display of Agamemnon's greatest strength, this war is over. He cannot win."

"But it wasn't his greatest strength," a voice came from behind him, and Gil-galad turned to face Hector, waiting in respectful silence for the Trojan prince to elaborate.

"When the Greeks stormed the beach, there was one man who fought like no one I have ever seen before. He was impossibly quick, and he made a spear throw that even I could never have achieved. But he did not fight today."

"And you believe this one Greek could change the course of the war?" There was definite interest, but hardly any concern, in the Elf's question.

"Yes, I do," Hector conceded in all earnestness. "He must have slain dozens, if not hundreds, of our men in that one brief encounter; and despite overwhelming odds in our favor, not one of us could touch him. If I had not known better, I would have sworn the god of war himself was among us then."

"What is the name of this soldier?" Gil-galad asked.

"I do not know his name," Hector admitted, "but he was the leader of the small Myrmidon forces who took the beach."

The Elf King nodded. "Is there any way to distinguish these Myrmidons from the rest of the Greeks?" he inquired.

Hector furrowed his brow as he thought back to the previous morning. "The sail of their ship is completely black, as is their armor. I believe they are the only Greeks to so adorn themselves."

Gil-galad was silent for a moment, deep in thought. At long length, he spoke. "I have a proposition for you. If I can remove this one warrior and his men from the conflict, will you consider the ancient friendship between our forefathers honored in full and send us on our way with your blessing?"

Priam exchanged glances with his eldest son, who shortly nodded his agreement to the terms, and the old king followed suit.

"Yes," he complied. "Remove this thorn from our side, and your presence here will no longer be required. You shall return to your own lands with our eternal gratitude, as well as our blessing; although, I daresay you do not need it."

"No," Gil-galad conceded simply, "but for the sake of my father and the many years of faithful service offered to him by your ancestors, I do desire it."

"It is settled, then," Priam said with definition. "How long do you anticipate it will be before we are rid of him?"

"Truthfully, I cannot say. But I assure you, I will begin immediately."

The old king smiled warmly. "Very well, my friend. And thank you."

The council was dismissed then, but before the elderly Trojan monarch could depart, he was intercepted by his Elven ally.

"Yes, my friend," he said in some surprise. "What might I do for you?"

"I but have one question, friend, which I believe you may very well be able to answer," Gil-galad explained. "It was by your instruction that our ships were directed up the river to a place of safe harbor. Clearly, you must know your lands extremely well."

Priam nodded suddenly, a small smile playing across his face as he understood. "What information do you need from me, friend Gil-galad?"

The High King of the Elves leaned closer, his voice dropping to a soft whisper. "I need you to tell me the most secretive way into the Greek encampments."

* * *

Later that evening, well after the sun had set, Patroclus and Eudorus sat side by side, both staring aimlessly into the small fire in front of them. Off in the distance, billows of smoke from countless funeral pyres tumbled inland toward the city, carrying with it the sickening stench of scorched flesh.

"So many are dead," the younger man said quietly, breaking the silence. He frowned as he continued to contemplate the events of the past day, and in his eyes there was something akin to guilt.

"Such is war, Patroclus," Eudorus assured him gently, laying a comforting hand on the boy's shoulder.

"But what was accomplished?" The youth met his companion's gaze. "Nothing, Eudorus."

"Don't be so certain. Sometimes it is necessary to lose a few battles before you can win one. It's how we learn. The only complicated part is surviving enough battles to gain the necessary experience."

Patroclus grinned slightly at that, but he still seemed troubled.

"You cannot make this defeat a burden to bear yourself, Patroclus," the older Myrmidon went on. "Even if we had fought, I do not believe things would have ended much differently. What happened today falls squarely on the shoulders of the kings – not their soldiers."

"But Achilles counts as one of the kings here," Patroclus retorted. "You cannot tell me that the Trojans still would have beaten us so badly if he had fought."

"I'm sure his presence would have made a difference, you're correct," Eudorus conceded. "But you know him well, Patroclus, probably better than anyone else here. You of all people should understand that he will not be returning to fight."

"But why not? All this for a girl? You saw how many Greeks died today, Eudorus. How can he just sit by and watch?"

The older man let out a heavy sigh. "Patroclus, do you remember what I said yesterday? About how I pity the fool who would dare take anything dear to Achilles?"

The boy nodded, and Eudorus continued.

"I'm sure that, at the time, you thought I was referring to the girl. But in truth, I was thinking only of you."

"Me?" Patroclus exclaimed, looking truly shocked.

Eudorus nodded. "Yes, you. You are his cousin, Patroclus, and he loves you dearly, even if he is short with you at times. That is why he will not let you fight. You're like a brother to him, the only family he has left outside of his goddess mother. You must realize he would do anything to protect you, I believe even if it meant giving up his own life for yours. When I said that yesterday, I was trying to imagine what a killing blow it would be to Achilles if anything were to happen to you. And I say 'trying' because I don't believe my mind could ever fully grasp such dire consequences."

The youth nodded in turn. "I understand," he said quietly, gazing into the fire once more. "But I still wish he would fight and help them in the next battle."

"I highly doubt it, but we will see what tomorrow brings." Eudorus rose to his feet. "I'm turning in for the night, Patroclus, and I suggest you do the same. I fear tomorrow may be a very long day."

With that, the Myrmidon second-in-command retreated to his tent, the boy going to his own not long after. Neither of them noticed the dark shape that melted silently into shadows behind them, just beyond the ring of dying firelight.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary:** Achilles' heel is not his only weakness. An AU crossover between Troy and Second Age Middle Earth. Focal characters include Patroclus, Achilles, and Gil-galad, along with many others from both stories.

**Disclaimer: **I still don't own 'em, so no worries.

**Author's Note: **This chapter and the next may be a little on the short side, but if I combined them, it would end up being too much all at once. But I think this way will end up working out nicely. Many thanks yet again to my amazing reviewers: **Whilom, Tori, **and **lozvamp **for their overwhelming enthusiasm and support! And **Brandi** m'dear, wherever you're at, I sincerely hope all is well! Hugs to all of you for always brightening up my day! So on to the chapter now, and everybody enjoy!

**Chapter 6**

Early the next morning, Eudorus was only mildly surprised to see Odysseus once again approaching the Myrmidon camp.

"You are here to see Achilles, I presume?" he inquired, and the Ithacan nodded.

"Wait here one moment," Eudorus told him after handing him a goblet of wine. "I'll tell Achilles you've come."

The Myrmidon captain stuck his head into the large nearby tent, informing his commander of their guest, and soon after, Achilles himself appeared.

"Tell the men to start loading the ship," he at once ordered Eudorus, not bothering to waste his breath on pleasantries. "We're going home."

The shock on Eudorus' face was evident, yet he bowed to his lord and immediately began to carry out his orders.

Achilles then continued on his way, a smile on his face as he greeted his old comrade, and the two esteemed Greeks clinked their wine glasses together.

"It's good to see you alive and well again, my friend, after that disgrace of a battle yesterday. And no doubt, that's what you've come to talk about today, is it not?"

Odysseus stroked his chin thoughtfully. "Yes, it is," he agreed. "Apparently you saw what happened. How many times must I say it? We need you back, Achilles."

But the golden-haired warrior remained silent, his gaze lost in the swirling blue waters of the ocean.

"Agamemnon is a proud man," Odysseus continued slowly, wisely cautious in approaching the root of their troubles, "but he knows when he's made a mistake."

That got Achilles talking. "The man sends _you_ to make his apologies?" He looked thoroughly disgusted. "What are you doing in thrall to that pig of a king?"

Odysseus was clearly amused. "The world seems so simple to you, my friend, but when you're a king, very few choices are simple. Ithaca cannot afford an enemy like Agamemnon."

"Are we supposed to fear him?" The famed hero made it quite clear by his tone that nothing would ever cause him to fear the man he so despised.

But the older king rolled his eyes as though he were arguing with a petulant teenager. "You don't fear anyone, that's your problem. Fear can be useful." He paused. "We need you to fight – Greece needs you."

Achilles turned his gaze back to the sea. "Greece got along fine before I was born, and Greece will be Greece long after I'm dead."

"I'm not talking about the land!" Odysseus exclaimed, his frustration finally showing through. "The _men_ need you." He leaned closer. "Stay Achilles," he pleaded, his voice low and earnest. "You were born for this war."

But Achilles only smiled slightly and shook his head. "Things are less simple today."

A reciprocating smile played on Odysseus' features. He understood, for Agamemnon had returned the girl to Achilles the previous night. "Women do have a way of…complicating things." He took a sip from his cup, yet his eyes darted over to see how his companion would respond.

Achilles leaned back casually and regarded his good friend. "Of all the kings of Greece, Odysseus, I respect you the most. But in this war, you're little more than a servant."

"Sometimes you have to serve in order to lead," Odysseus replied with a quick shrug. "I hope you understand that one day." The King of Ithaca then stood and clapped his comrade on the shoulder before returning from whence he'd come.

Achilles stayed put for a moment, idly fingering the wine goblet in his hand, and clearly occupied with his own contemplations.

"We're going home?"

The familiar voice broke into his reflections, and Achilles looked up to find his young cousin standing over him.

"We sail in the morning," he explained slowly, trying hard to ignore the hurt look in the boy's eyes.

"Greeks are being slaughtered," Patroclus told him, the concern evident in his voice. "We can't just sail away!"

His elder cousin sighed as he sought to reason with him. "It's fighting you still long for, Patroclus, but there will always be another war – that I promise you."

"These are our countrymen," Patroclus exclaimed, indignant. "You betray all of Greece just to see Agamemnon fall!"

Achilles only rose gracefully to his feet, allowing for a pregnant pause as the two warriors locked eyes in a silent battle of wills.

"Someone has to lose," he said finally, quickly turning on his heel in agitation and retreating back into the privacy of his tent.

Patroclus stood unmoving for few moments, staring after his cousin in silence and disbelief. At last, the youth likewise moved on and embarked on a despondent walk along the beach as he wrestled with his own thoughts.

* * *

When dusk settled over the landscape that evening, Patroclus was still upset, kicking along small rocks and broken shells as he mulled things over. He had grudgingly helped Eudorus and the others load the ship, but he had fastidiously avoided his cousin. And as the day had come to a close, he had opted for another venture along the beach. The cool wind blowing in off the water and the lulling, rhythmic sound of the waves always seemed to help him regain his composure when he was like this.

The boy shook his head in bitter confusion. He loved his cousin, but he just did not understand him! How important was pride to Achilles that he would let thousands of soldiers suffer for it? Especially soldiers who had done nothing to anger him themselves. They simply fought under the orders of their kings, and Achilles understood that as well as anyone. He had even tried to lecture Patroclus on that very subject just yesterday morning!

The blonde youth angrily kicked another shell that lay in his path and numbly watched it tumble along the sand. When he came up to it again, he looked down and felt a sudden pang of remorse. The shell looked exactly like one Achilles' mother, Thetis, would often use in her seashell necklaces, the latest of which now adorned Patroclus' neck. Achilles had given it to him right before they'd left for Troy.

He sighed, anger suddenly flowing out of him like waves drawn back into the sea. Perhaps Achilles was right. There would surely be other opportunities to fight, at some point in the future. Perhaps he was simply being selfish and impatient after all…

Just then, his attention was drawn to a group of soldiers who sat huddled around a campfire, talking amongst themselves. But what had caught the boy's ear was the mention of the name "Achilles." He quietly drew as close to the congregated men as he could, utilizing one of the nearby tents to better conceal himself. He leaned forward, listening intently to hear whatever it was these men were saying about his cousin.

"If only he would come back," one of them said, passing a chunk of bread to his comrade who nodded solemnly in agreement.

"That Hector is a menace," said another man, wincing as the man beside him put a fresh bandage on his injured arm.

"He do that to you?" asked an older soldier whose left eye had been lost in a battle long since past. The wounded man nodded.

"He killed my nephew today, too," a weary-looking soldier added, his voice hoarse. "I promised his mother I would keep him safe…"

Unable to continue, the man broke down and choked back tears, nodding his gratitude when a friend laid a steady hand on his shoulder.

"Hector fights like no one I've ever seen, except Achilles," the one-eyed soldier elaborated. "He seems to be everywhere on the field at once, always leaving a trail of stinking death behind him. Achilles is the only one who can beat him, mark my words."

"What about the Elf King?" another questioned him.

The old fighter shrugged. "It doesn't matter. They will have no need for him if Hector continues to fight so well. Even Ajax is dead now, and we're all doomed to follow since the untouchable Achilles clearly doesn't care what becomes of the rest of us."

Patroclus at once rose and hurried back in the direction from which he had come, unable to hear any more and furiously berating himself for his previous thoughts. Him, selfish? It was true, he did want badly to fight in a real battle; but more than anything, he wanted to help his fellow Greeks. How could his desires be purely selfish when their realization would bring such joy and hope to his countrymen?

No. The only selfishness here was on the part of Achilles, who would not stir from his place of stubborn indifference beside the ships. His return would save hundreds, if not thousands, of lives; yet he blatantly refused to show his face, being well aware of the consequences, and all because one man had dared insult him.

Patroclus fumed, staring out across the ocean. The waters were of no comfort to him now. He had to say something – had to confront his cousin, even if it meant falling out of the great warrior's favor for quite some time. But he would not endure the thought of deserting these men without speaking up on their behalf. The guilt would haunt him for the rest of his life, no matter how much glory he might someday win. For glory was nothing, utterly worthless, in comparison to the lifeblood of his fellow men.

With his new resolve firm, and the passion of his cause beating brightly in his chest, the boy headed back toward the Myrmidon shelters. His purpose was clear, and there was no turning back. He would speak with Achilles.

**Author's End Note: **Ok, the next chapter's almost halfway done already, so you guys shouldn't have to wait long to see how this confrontation plays out. Thank you so much, Tori, for taking a look at it for me - you're awesome, chica-chee! But I'm sure we'll talk about it more before I actually get it posted. Thanks for reading, everyone, ttyl!


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary:** Achilles' heel is not his only weakness. An AU crossover between Troy and Second Age Middle Earth. Focal characters include Patroclus, Achilles, and Gil-galad, along with many others from both stories.

**Disclaimer: **How many times do I have to say it? They aren't mine!

**Author's Note: **Well, I know I said I was going to update tomorrow, but since this was all ready, I decided to let you guys have this one a little early. My deepest gratitude, as always, to **Brandi, Whilom, Tori, **and **lozvamp** for your enthusiastic and encouraging reviews! And, Brandi, it's good to have you back! But I cannot possibly submit this chapter without a gigantic THANK YOU to Tori for all her help! This first scene especially was giving me such trouble, and she helped get me through it much more easily than I ever would have expected. Thanks, Tori, you're awesome! But I know you guys were all just dying for an update, so enjoy!

**Chapter 7**

His heart pounding in anticipation, Patroclus flung aside the entry flaps of his guardian's tent and marched inside without announcement.

"Cousin," he said with as much authority as he could muster, "we need to talk."

Achilles looked up at him in mild surprise, then nodded shortly to the girl Briseis who meekly slipped past Patroclus and out of the tent.

"Well," Achilles asked when they were alone, crossing his arms in front of his broad chest.

The younger man took a deep, somewhat shaky breath. "You can't leave."

Achilles merely raised an eyebrow. "Why not?"

"Why not?" Patroclus echoed in disbelief, his anger resurfacing. "How can you say that? The men _need_ you, Achilles. How can you just sit back and watch them die?"

The godlike son of Peleus snorted softly, and his eyes narrowed. "Clearly I have not taught you well enough in the ways of the world, Patroclus. Agamemnon took what was mine, and he cannot be allowed to carry on without suffering the consequences."

"But he's not the one 'suffering the consequences'," Patroclus argued bitterly. "He's not the one out on the front lines of the battle, being wounded and watching friends die. _He_ stays behind and feels nothing, only shame when he's finally defeated. It's the soldiers who are out there dying! Cousin, how many times have you told me that it's always the soldiers who win a battle, but the king who takes the credit? It's no different here."

The boy was fuming now, scarcely able to hold back his rage at the injustice of it all. "You would blame Agamemnon for all of this, yet it's the soldiers who suffer as a result! Your return would save so many lives. These men look to you for courage and inspiration; you're already a hero to them, Achilles. You cannot abandon them now just because you're angry with Agamemnon!"

"That man slighted my honor," came Achilles immediate retort.

"Damn your honor!" Patroclus snapped back, angrier than he could ever remember being since the night his parents had died. "Damn your pride, damn your magnificent 'glory,' and damn your lust for immortality!"

The elder warrior froze, so caught off guard by the youth's outburst that he could not respond right away. Never had he heard his cousin speak with such passion and vehemence – especially not when it was directed at himself.

But the boy only raved on, taking advantage of his guardian's stunned silence. "You say you fight for honor, cousin, but Odysseus is a far more honorable man than you. He knows what a blundering fool Agamemnon is, yet he is not too proud to stay and fight regardless, because it's the right thing to do. _He _will not desert his men. You say there is glory in being a great warrior, but that glory will not be yours! It belongs to Hector, who fights out of love for his countrymen and a desire to protect his home. It's _his _name the crowds are shouting now, not yours."

Achilles tensed visibly. He had managed to maintain his composure thus far, but to hold his ire in check now was becoming nigh impossible.

Yet Patroclus was not finished. "You say you desire immortality, Achilles? Why not talk to Gil-galad, the Elf King? He would know. He _will_ live forever, and it's _his_ name that will be remembered for thousands of years, not yours!"

"Enough!" Achilles thundered, instantly silencing the boy's tirade. This was too much! He would hear no more.

Patroclus in turn took an involuntary step backward, for there was a light of rage in Achilles' eyes that he had never seen before, not even when Agamemnon had dared offend him. And the boy was suddenly afraid, terrified anew as he became the object of his cousin's infamous wrath.

"Get out!" the Myrmidon commander ordered, harsh fury blazing in his stormy eyes.

Patroclus didn't have to be told twice, not when Achilles was like this. But there was no mistaking the pain and betrayal etched across the boy's face as he made his hasty retreat.

* * *

Gil-galad gave a testing tug at the knot in his _hithlain_ rope and couldn't help but grin. In fact, had he not wanted to disturb the deathly stillness of the city around him, he would have been sorely tempted to burst out laughing like he'd not done since before they had first arrived in Troy. In truth, it almost made him feel childlike again – this climbing down ropes and scaling walls. He missed the days of his youth; although, granted, even the earliest days of his childhood had never been exactly carefree.

"Venturing out again tonight, Ereinion?" a voice from behind him suddenly spoke.

Gil-galad jumped and whirled around, hand instinctively moving toward the dagger at his belt. Speaking of making him feel like a child again…

"Cirdan!" he exclaimed, though he kept his voice low. He took a deep breath to steady his racing heart. "I thought I was past the age when you could startle me like that."

The old shipwright only smiled and emerged silently from the shadows in which he had been concealed. "You've startled me plenty of times yourself in the past. Yet you never could slip past me as a child, Ereinion. Whatever makes you believe you could do so now?"

"I only thought my skills in stealth had considerably improved since childhood," the other reasoned while readjusting the grey cloak draped across his shoulders.

"Ah yes, and so they have, young one; but you see, my ears have also improved over the years, as has my knowledge of your own peculiar habits."

The dark-haired Elf shook his head. "Well, then, you've caught me – again. So what now, my dear shipwright?"

Cirdan allowed an amused smile to spread across his bearded face. "I daresay I can hardly stop you from leaving this time, Ereinion, but perhaps you will deign to tell me just where you're sneaking off to – again?"

"You will see when I return," Gil-galad answered succinctly, beginning to turn away, but his companion clearly was not satisfied with that response.

"I realize that you have long been independent, Ereinion, as well you should be." Cirdan stepped closer. "But I do not take lightly the promise I once made to your father, and as far as I am concerned, your well-being is still my responsibility. So you'll forgive me if I am more than a little concerned by your wandering off through a strange land in the middle of the night."

The younger Elf sighed, trying not to sound too impatient. "You needn't worry about me, Cirdan. I will be back before morning."

"Very well," the Telerin lord acquiesced. "Only realize that if you aren't back by then, I shall have to come out looking for you myself. I expect you to return at a descent hour, child."

The High King chuckled. It had been a painstaking process to learn when Cirdan the Shipwright was in earnest and when he was merely jesting in his own gruffly humorous manner; but after so many centuries of living with the brusque Elf, Gil-galad was a master of that particular art.

"And I expect you'll be waiting up for me when I return, will you not?" he gently teased back.

Cirdan grunted. "I should imagine so. Shall I polish your armor while you are out, my liege?"

Gil-galad finally did laugh out loud at that, the mere mental image of that suggestion being more than sufficient stimulus for his humor.

"The day I see you shining my armor, Cirdan, will be the day I know your old age has finally caught up with you," he retorted with a mischievous twinkle in his eye. "But would you be willing to do something truly helpful for me, my friend?"

Cirdan nodded, for it was a simple understanding that he would serve this young king for the rest of both their lives, which he hoped would span many more millennia.

"What would you have me do?" he asked.

"Nothing much. Only could you remove this rope once I am gone?"

The venerable shipwright raised a silver eyebrow. "What, you will not be returning this same way, as you did last night?"

"No, if all goes according to plan, it will not be possible to return here. But do you mean to say you that waited for me all last night, as well?"

"Naturally. Is there anything else, Ereinion?"

"Yes," Gil-galad replied, after thinking a moment. "You can inform the guards at the city gate to expect me, so they need not fear granting access to their late-night visitor."

"Better yet, I shall await you there myself and see to it that you are allowed into the city without hindrance." Cirdan gestured toward the rope that still dangled untouched down the broad wall. "But I believe you had best be going now."

The High King nodded. "Yes, I must. Thank you, Cirdan."

"Are you certain the rope is secure?"

"Of course it's secure," Gil-galad replied, feigning agitation at how his old mentor could even suggest such a thing. "You taught me that very knot yourself during my first years in the Havens."

"Aye, but that was a long time ago, child. I should hate to think that you might have forgotten it."

Gil-galad just laughed again; and with that, he began his descent down the wall, once more enjoying the exhilaration that accompanied the action. It was only regrettable that the quest upon which he embarked was of such a grim nature.

* * *

Patroclus sat on a large rock on the beach, gazing out over a tumultuous sea that reflected all too closely the turmoil boiling in his own heart. The boy bitterly blinked back the hot tears that threatened to escape down his cheeks and hugged his knees against his chest. What had he just done? It had seemed so right at the time, but now he just felt awful – lower than the dust. He had meant it all for the best, yet perhaps he had pushed Achilles too far.

He shivered in the cool night air, recalling the fierce look in the great warrior's eye when he had finally been dismissed. It was not wise to arouse his cousin's anger like that, Patroclus knew. It might easily be a very long time before the two of them could sort this all out. And while he still felt justified in his argument to remain and fight, he realized now that he had not been right to insult his guardian the way he did. An apology for that was most assuredly in order, and he could only hope that he would not be estranged from Achilles' good graces for too terribly long.

Patroclus sighed wearily. Eudorus had been correct last night when he'd predicted this would be a long day. And this time, he had been so upset that he could not even stand to be in the presence of the very soldiers whom he had so irately defended. He had left the encampments altogether, wandering along the beach until he'd found this deserted place where he could collect his thoughts. But it had to be well past midnight by now, and while Patroclus knew that his cousin's definition of "morning" hardly meant the crack of dawn, he should still be getting back to rest prior to their departure.

He stood to leave, but at that moment, a pair of strong hands grabbed him from behind, pinning his arms down at his sides and pulling him back. The boy's reflexive gasp of surprise was instantly stifled by a cloth that his assailant used to cover his nose and mouth. Patroclus' eyes went wide, and he immediately held his breath, knowing full well that the cloth must have been saturated in some kind on drug – or worse, poison – that he was meant to inhale.

He lashed out against his attacker, attempting to twist out of the other's grip in a maneuver Achilles had taught him all too long ago. But it soon became clear that his opponent was by far the more skilled, for nothing he tried had even the slightest impact. His restrainer continued to hold him fast, not the least affected by his frenzied efforts.

That was when Patroclus began to panic. He couldn't keep this up – he had to breathe! But the cloth over his nose and mouth could not be shaken off. Desperate, the blonde youth made one last valiant endeavor to throw off his unseen attacker, but the other simply stepped back further, easily tripping Patroclus when he tried to follow so that the boy fell back against his chest.

Patroclus felt the soft brush of warm breath against his cheek, and he couldn't suppress a shudder.

"Breathe, child," a low voice whispered into his ear. "There will be no permanent damage. It will only make this easier for both of us."

Now frightened beyond reason, Patroclus sought once more to regain his footing, but all to no avail. Having little other choice in the matter, he succumbed at last to the need to breathe, only distantly aware of the pungent odor from the cloth. His vision at once began to darken, and within mere seconds, he was limp in his captor's arms.

**Author's End Note: **Hey, hey, what an excellent time for a cliffhanger, don't you think? But never fear, the next installment is pretty much all done on paper already, I just have to polish it out and type it. So, Brandi, you can put away that Crowbar O' Doom - for now, anyway. Love you all, ttyl!


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary:** Achilles' heel is not his only weakness. An AU crossover between Troy and Second Age Middle Earth. Focal characters include Patroclus, Achilles, and Gil-galad, along with many others from both stories.

**Disclaimer: **I don't own anyone, and sadly, I never will.

**Author's Note: **Alrighty, everyone, it's time for the long-awaited "Capture Chapter." You'll like this one, Tori, I guarantee it! Wow, I know these are coming out really fast, but what can I say? It was done, I'm bored, and I'm feeling particularly generous today, lol. Thanks as always to the Fab Four: **Whilom, Tori, Brandi,** and **lozvamp** for all your reviews which never cease to brighten up my day and make me smile! Thank you, I love you all! And now, the "Capture Chapter" awaits you. Enjoy!

**Chapter 8**

Ereinion Gil-galad, last High King of the Elves of Middle Earth, entered the Greek camp for the second consecutive night; but this time, his mission was far more direct. It was also much later this time around, and none save a few dreary-eyed watchmen were stirring. Wrapped in a dark cloak woven by the skilled hands of his own people, the Elf passed swiftly and silently from shadow to shadow, leaving not even a footprint behind in the sand as testimony to his presence.

It did not take long for him to relocate the tent into which he had seen Achilles' cousin enter the previous night. The immortal monarch slipped inside, pleased to find the humble shelter empty of any other life. Good – the boy should not be missed until morning. He then withdrew a small piece of folded parchment from a deep pocket inside his cloak and laid it at the head of the low bed. A note of ransom. The boy would be missed, and when his distinguished cousin searched for him here, he would find only this note. But it would be enough.

That done, Gil-galad left the tent and departed from the Greek encampments entirely. It was time to collect the boy.

* * *

The young Greek had not moved when Gil-galad returned for him. He still lay senseless on his side – gagged, blindfolded, and hands bound fast behind his back. But he would be waking soon, as the drug wore off. It had truly been a most unexpected stroke of good fortune that he had found the boy out here alone. For while the Elf King was certain he could have quietly removed the boy from within the camp, it still would have been rather difficult. Indeed, things were much better this way.

Gil-galad stood above the boy, looking down at him for a moment, and frowned. The near cruelty of it all troubled him, for the child would be utterly helpless and confused when he awoke. But nevertheless, the youth was not weak, and if he were allowed to fully comprehend the gravity of his situation, he would surely resist with every fiber of his being. Such an ongoing struggle would take precious time, and the last thing Gil-galad needed was for the Greeks to become alerted to the boy's absence prematurely and begin searching for him. Yes – as much as he disliked having to deliver such treatment, especially to one so young, it was a sadly necessary precaution.

Just then, there was a low moan at his feet, and a slight stirring from the prostrate form in the sand. The boy was waking up.

* * *

Patroclus groaned and rubbed his throbbing head against the ground. Why in Hades did he feel so miserable? He tried to sit up but found the desire immediately squelched when his head began to spin uncontrollably. He lay still for a moment, wondering again why he felt so dazed and nauseous.

Only then did he realize in sudden horror that he couldn't get up. Even if he'd wanted to, he could not. His hands were tied behind his back, and in addition to that, he couldn't see. He blinked furiously in an attempt to clear his vision, but everything remained pitch black. Memories came rushing back to him in waves then, and he opened his mouth to scream for help – for Achilles – but the words were strangled back by a gag he had not even noticed until now.

Genuinely panicked, Patroclus was overjoyed to feel that he still had free movement of his legs. He rolled over, despite how his head swam at the movement, and tried to push himself up with his legs. He hadn't made it very far, though, before someone suddenly grabbed hold of him by the shoulders and hauled him to his feet.

The young Greek followed his initial instinct to fight, to pull away, but his assailant's grip was entirely unyielding. And when those firm hands, no doubt the very same that had restrained him earlier, started to lead him blindly away, Patroclus put forth one more desperate effort to escape. But he ceased his struggles when another wave of nausea hit him, all thoughts of resistance nullified by the terrible prospect of vomiting while gagged.

His captor seemed to sense this also, for all movement was stilled until the boy had regained control of his stomach. Then a voice spoke, and Patroclus recognized it as the same one he had heard before – soft and fluid as water, yet strong like iron.

"Come, child."

The owner of the voice then began leading him away once more, and Patroclus blindly followed, stumbling despite the other's guidance. In truth, he was terrified – scared and all alone in the dark. But what frightened him the most was that he hadn't the slightest inclination as to who his captor was or where they were going. Although, had he been thinking clearly, he might have been able to guess easily enough.

He felt the shifting sand turn firm beneath his feet and gathered that they were heading further inland. They continued on in silence for some time, the loudest sound being Patroclus' struggling to breathe around the gag, for his unseen adversary moved very quickly and almost silently. Indeed, it seemed to Patroclus that, even with his sense of hearing sharpened by lack of sight, he could hear no noise whatsoever to suggest that there was someone behind him. The only proof of his undesired companion's presence was the steadfast hands that never left his shoulders, steering him along with an almost attentive concern.

The youth had made a couple more unexpected attempts to break free from that relentless grasp, but it was futile. If anything, his captor seemed almost amused by his efforts, letting him taste a fleeting hope of freedom before bringing him back into line with a variety of well-practiced moves. His attacker was strong and certainly very tall since his voice, when he spoke, came from just above the boy's ear. But it was his strength that worried Patroclus the most. He had made his capture seem nearly effortless, and none of Achilles' extensive training had been of any help to the younger Greek.

Patrolcus had never felt so helpless. He remembered that after his parents had died, he had felt terribly lost and alone. Achilles had been his light of salvation then, rescuing him from the black pit of despair into which he had fallen and giving him a renewed joy and purpose in life. But even those dark times seemed like nothing now in comparison to this blind, terrifying hell.

At long last, he could just barely make out the distant sound of murmuring voices, and he strained his ears to hear more. Suddenly, his tall companion shouted something, and Patrolcus jumped despite himself, feeling the grip on his arms tighten once again. But this time, it seemed vaguely to be a gesture of comfort or reassurance rather than of force, and they walked onward.

The voices he had heard earlier grew louder, and then Patroclus was aware of a harsh creaking sound, very much like the grating hinges of a giant door. Or a gate. Of course – he was being taken back to the city as a prisoner of war, and Zeus only knew what sort of treatment awaited him there.

Cold panic rose up in his chest with a new sense of urgency, and he sought once more to escape the horror that surely lay ahead, this time by coming to an abrupt halt and forcefully backing up into the one who held him. Patroclus was elated to hear a soft grunt behind him as the contact was made, but when the vise-like grip still was not loosened, the boy nearly went into hysterics. He flailed about wildly in his captor's unrelenting hold, wanting at least to delay the inevitable, and he again tried to scream through the gag for his cousin.

But even if he could have cried out, it would have done no good; for they had come too far now, and no one would hear him. Besides that, his captor would not be hindered, and the boy was bodily dragged the remainder of the way into the city, hearing with dreadful finality the groan of the gate once more as it closed shut behind them.

* * *

Gil-galad pushed the frantically struggling youth along as they entered Troy, thankful it had taken this long for the child to realize exactly where they were headed. He was likewise relieved when, after the gate had been shut, the boy's resistance quieted, and he came willingly, no doubt realizing he no longer had any chance of escape. But he kept turning his head this way and that, as though trying to glimpse his unknown surroundings through the blindfold. And though he was hardly surprised, Gil-galad still frowned to feel the boy now trembling slightly in his hold.

The High King nodded his acknowledgement of thanks to Cirdan as soon as he saw the older Elf coming toward them; but by now, the Trojan soldiers guarding the gate had begun to gather around them as well, whispering amongst themselves at the sight of the Elven King's young captive. Even Cirdan himself appeared somewhat puzzled.

"_This_ is what kept you out all night, Ereinion?" the shipwright questioned, stepping closer.

Gil-galad nodded. "This boy is the cousin of Achilles, the Greek warrior who, according to Prince Hector, virtually took the Trojan beach single-handedly."

At the mention of his cousin's name, the blonde youth froze, tensing tangibly beneath his captor's hands.

"Careful, Ereinion," Cirdan suddenly cautioned, smoothly dropping his voice and switching over to the tongue of the Eldar. "You have clearly gone to great lengths to ensure the secrecy of this mission, until now. But I would still be cautious with the boy's identity if I were you, for there is already great animosity in this city toward his cousin."

"I understand," Gil-galad complied, but before he could say anything more, one of the Trojan soldiers spoke up.

"My lord, we can show you to the prison if you like…"

"That won't be necessary," the Elf abruptly cut him off, and, after motioning for Cirdan to follow, the King and his new prisoner moved on into the city.

* * *

They walked in silence for a while, yet Patroclus knew a third party had joined them. He could almost sense the strange presence beside them, even though, like his captor, this newcomer made no sound as he walked. The ground was packed hard now – a city street. Where were they taking him? The person still holding him had just declined an offer to be guided to the prison, so what other options did that leave?

At least walking on a street meant he didn't have to be as wary of tripping over rocks and pitfalls, so he had taken to just shuffling his feet forward automatically. That was, until the hand on his arm tightened suddenly and brought him to a halt. He stood there, waiting anxiously. Had they arrived? What was going to happen?

A hand was then laid gently on top of his shoulder, and Patroclus jerked his head toward it, even though he knew he would not be able to see.

"Stairs, child," his captor's voice spoke again, and he was led forward, more slowly this time, as his feet felt around blindly for the alleged steps. He hated feeling so helpless! What if there were no stairs, and his captors were simply amusing themselves by watching him fumble about in the dark?

But the stairs were there, and thus began their trek upward. When the ground finally leveled off, they continued only a short distance before pausing again, and Patroclus heard the sound of another door being opened. He braced himself, waiting to be thrown headlong into a grimy cell, but instead he was led through no differently than any other time that night. Feeling thoroughly confused and hopelessly lost, he strained his ears just in time to catch the soft, yet oh-so-ominous click of the door latching shut behind them.

**Author's End Note: **Ok, I've run out of stuff that I already had written beforehand, so updates may be slightly slower from this point on, but hopefully not too much. Goodness knows I don't want to feel the wrath of Brandi's Crowbar O' Doom! But I promise I'll do my very best. Thanks, guys, ttyl!


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary: **Achilles' heel is not his only weakness. An AU crossover between Troy and Second Age Middle Earth. Focal characters include Patroclus, Achilles, and Gil-galad, along with many others from both stories.

**Disclaimer: **I'm running out of things to say except that I do not own them, pure and simple.

**Author's Note: **Hey, everybody! Well, if the last one was the "Capture Chapter," then this one's got to be the "Torture Chapter." So brace yourselves! Special shoutouts to the reviewers who consistently brighten up my day: **Whilom, Tori, **and **lozvamp**. We seem to have temporarily lost **Brandi **again, but I have every confidence she'll be back sooner or later. Thanks to all of you for your enthusiastic support, I love it! Tori, I know you'll definitely love this one, and I have a feeling Whilom will appreciate it too, lol! I look forward to hearing from you guys again soon, along with anyone else who just might happen to feel so inclined! Enjoy!

**Chapter 9**

Gil-galad led the young Greek inside his own personal chamber and nodded for Cirdan to close the door behind them. He felt the boy shudder in his grasp as the latch clicked, his fear and apprehension painfully evident even with most of his face concealed. The Elf King guided his young captive over to one of the columns in the room's far corners and easily forced the boy down into a kneeling position.

He then proceeded to bind the youth's hands and feet back behind the post, and while Gil-galad realized it would not be the most comfortable of positions, he did not intend to leave the child that way for long. Just in the beginning, until he was certain the boy had resigned himself to his fate. But he could not have his prisoner escaping, for if he did, all would be ruined.

"Ereinion," Cirdan spoke suddenly from behind him, still speaking in the Elven tongue so the boy would not understand them, "were you aware of any intent of the Trojans to attack the Greeks tonight?"

Gil-galad looked up from his captive, clearly startled. "Of course not, otherwise I would have told you." He eyed his friend closely. "Why do you ask?"

The older Elf's expression had grown pensive as he considered his response. "Because while I was waiting at the gate for your return, Prince Hector led a fully armed Trojan force out of the city, and I hardly imagine their intentions were peaceful."

The King's breath was drawn in a quick hiss. "They are attacking the Greeks tonight? Cirdan, why didn't you tell me this sooner?"

"I assumed you knew, Ereinion," Cirdan explained smoothly, not nearly as alarmed as his younger companion. "I believed it all to be part of your plan, for you have kept everything else secretive. I still do not fully comprehend your intentions concerning this child; and besides, surely the Trojans would not strike so suddenly without first consulting you on the matter."

"Yet that is exactly what they have done!" an indignant Gil-galad exclaimed, his grey eyes flashing in anger. He grabbed his cloak from where he'd recently thrown it on a nearby chair and was already moving toward the door. "Come, Cirdan, we must stop them! This situation is already delicate enough, and I cannot have them upsetting the balance of it all beyond repair."

The shipwright frowned. "What do you mean by that, young one?"

"I shall explain later," Gil-galad fleetingly assured him, "but we must hurry before it is too late."

He was about to stride past Cirdan and out the door, but was brought to a halt by a strong and all too familiar hand on his forearm.

"What about the boy?" his old guardian questioned.

Gil-galad paused, turning his gaze back to the child that still knelt bound and helpless on the far side of the room. And although it was true that he did not wish to leave the boy in such a state, there was simply no time now to ease him into his situation as gradually as the Elven King might have liked. It would have to wait.

"He will be fine until we get back," he said at last, though with some reluctance, and the two Elves hastily departed on a new quest of their own.

* * *

Patroclus heard the door open and close once again, and then all was silent. His captors had left, and he was alone. He pulled experimentally against the ropes that held him, but with no success. Simply put, he was stuck, and with his ankles bound fast behind the pole to which he was tethered, he could not even unbend his legs, which were beginning to cramp painfully beneath him. He next focused on trying to remove or at least loosen the gag with his tongue, but that proved to be a likewise hopeless task from the beginning. Wearied at last, he sighed around the stubborn gag and allowed himself to lean back against the column for support.

It was extremely uncomfortable. Part of him almost wished his captors would return quickly and thus offer some small hope of being moved, but his more intelligent self told him that if he was released from this unpleasant situation, he would soon find himself in far greater discomfort. He shuddered. If only he knew what was going on, or had at least some vague idea of what to expect!

But as it was, he was in the dark, both literally and figuratively. He had not even been able to understand his captors most of the time they spoke, although he distinctly recalled the one who held him mentioning Achilles' name. And what could they possibly want with his cousin, except, like all Trojans, to see him dead?

Oh, but what Patroclus wouldn't have given to hear Achilles' voice right now! Even their heated argument earlier would have been preferable to this. And had it truly been only earlier that same night that they had fought? It seemed like ages ago, another lifetime. How late was it now, anyway? He wouldn't have been surprised if it was near dawn already.

At that moment, much to his mixed feelings of delight and dismay, his ears caught the sound of the door opening, and he immediately forced himself to sit up straighter, to boldly meet whatever might come next. He could hear the steps of many feet, probably three or four people, and they were all gathering silently around him. He didn't even need his hearing to confirm this – he could feel their presence, bearing down like a weight on top of him.

Suddenly uncomfortable in much more than the mere physical sense, Patroclus wanted desperately to shrink back against the unyielding column behind him, and he had to resist the urge to squirm under those unseen stares.

"So this is him?" one of the newcomers questioned, and there was a cold edge to his voice that made the young Greek shiver.

"Yes, it is," another voice answered, but this time, Patroclus was certain he'd heard it somewhere before. He racked his memory as the familiar voice continued. "This is the cousin of Achilles, or so says the Elf King."

Had his hands been free, Patroclus would have snapped his fingers. That was it! At the gate – this was the same man who had offered to guide his original captor to the prison. But wait – had he just said "the Elf King"? The youth felt his head beginning to spin as the realization suddenly dawned. That would also explain why he hadn't been able to understand them the majority of the time. But to think that, all the while, his captor had been none other than Gil-galad himself…

But there was no time for further contemplation, and Patroclus was quite literally jerked back to the present when a strong hand grabbed hold of his chin and roughly turned his head upward, presumably so that the owner of the hand could see him better.

"He looks rather like Achilles, too, from what I've heard." The first voice was speaking again now, and when it began anew, it was right next to the boy's ear, low and menacing. "Both of my younger brothers died when your cousin took the beach. He killed them, didn't he? Or at least his ever-loyal Myrmidons did. So you see, we'd simply like to return the favor now."

Panic rose up cold in the pit of his stomach, and Patroclus was afraid, even more so than when Gil-galad had first caught him. Because this time, he knew exactly what lay ahead. Frantic, the boy tried to pull his chin out of the other man's grasp, but the fingers only tightened painfully, digging into his jaw.

"Oh no, you won't be getting out of this," the voice told him with a bitter laugh. "The Elf's already done a beautiful job tying you up here, but I think we'll tighten this gag anyway, just to be safe. We wouldn't want anyone disturbing our little fun, now would we?"

Patroclus winced beneath the blindfold as the gag was drawn even tighter, so much so that the squeezing pressure made his head pound.

"Everyone here in Troy knows someone who was slaughtered by your cousin," the first man continued once he was satisfied that their captive was secure. "I'm only glad we can be the ones to avenge so many deaths."

And with a dizzying strike to his head delivered by the speaker, it began – a relentless torrent of blows to his bound form, and he was helpless to defend himself. He couldn't even raise his arms to ward off the attacks. His tormentors laughed as the treatment continued, talking amongst themselves and probably to him as well, but their words were lost in the incessant hum of pain that filled his ears.

One of his assailants then kicked him repeatedly in the side, and the youth doubled over as much as possible in a weak attempt to shield his exposed torso. Hot blood bubbled up in his mouth behind the gag, drowning the anguished scream he could not utter, yet Patroclus knew the worst had only just begun.

* * *

Cirdan and Gil-galad urged their borrowed horses forward, knowing that the Trojan army could not be far ahead. And Cirdan, now completely aware of his younger comrade's intentions, was in full agreement that this attack had to be stopped as quickly as possible. They came up on the Trojan ranks to find the lines of men standing in still formation, facing out toward the Sea; as the two Elves approached, they could see billows of smoke rolling in from the Greek encampments and hear the frenzied cries of men as they wrestled with the scalding flames.

"An impressive tactic, and not unlike one used against us in your early years," Cirdan noted to his former pupil. "The fire wreaks havoc and destruction, while the Trojans need only sit here and watch until their enemy is weary. Then they attack."

Gil-galad grunted in response, yet another habit he had inherited from his mentor. "Then let us be grateful to have arrived before the true battle begins."

It was not difficult to locate Prince Hector. He stood apart from the main ranks, observing the fiery chaos in the Greek camp with a rather forced expression of impassivity. But his surprise was genuine when he saw his father's two venerable guests riding toward him.

"My lords," he greeted, bowing his head. "What brings you here at such a time?"

Gil-galad wasted little time on pleasantries. "Prince Hector, you must pull back from this attack at once," he ordered in a tone of command that was clearly well-accustomed to prompt obedience.

"Why?" Hector questioned with some alarm. "Has my father sent word for us to retreat?"

"We have heard nothing from your father, which is precisely the problem," the Elven King retorted tersely. "When was it decided that this assault would take place?"

"It was decided last night, though I'll be the first to confess I was against it."

"You were against it?" Cirdan repeated. "Why?"

"Because I have agreed with Lord Gil-galad all along – we do not need to chase the Greeks from our shores. Troy's walls can't be breached. If we continue to defend the city itself, they will tire and leave of their own accord." A shadow fell across the prince's face as he gazed back out over the smoke-filled encampments. "But blatantly attacking their ships is not wise. The Myrmidons did not fight in the first battle in front of the city, so I presume there is some sort of dissension between their leader and the other kings. But if they are unified here against a common enemy, forced to fight for their lives, he will return."

"It is Achilles you speak of."

Hector turned to lock the dark-haired Elf in a fixed stare. "You know his name? The Myrmidon captain?"

Gil-galad solemnly nodded. "I told you previously that he was my concern, did I not? And I have learned far more than his name over the past two days. In fact, a plan has already been set in motion that will remove him permanently from your lands."

"What do you mean?" the young warrior pressed him, intrigued. "What plan? And why didn't you tell us of this sooner?"

But the Elf merely parried with a question of his own. "Why did you not consult me before instigating this offensive?"

"We believed you wished to be left to your own devices now that you were focused on eliminating this Myrmidon, Achilles," Hector explained.

"And it never occurred to you that my 'devices' might be slightly affected by an assault of this magnitude?" the immortal King retorted with more than a touch of sarcasm. "Be warned, Prince of Troy, that if you continue in this attack, you will easily eradicate the very plan I spoke of to rid you of your greatest enemy."

Hector sighed dejectedly and hung his head. "You are correct," he admitted freely. "We should not have come to this decision without your counsel, and I can assure you it will not happen again."

"Then recall your troops, Prince Hector, and all soon will be revealed."

But the Trojan royal was silent, his face riddled with indecision.

"Fall back to the city, young Prince," Gil-galad encouraged him. "Achilles must not fight today, and I would pray you do not give him any cause to do so."

Hector at last nodded his compliance. "Very well. But my father strongly supported this attack. He will demand an explanation as to why it was called off so suddenly."

"And he shall have one," came Gil-galad's concise response, though he was clearly satisfied that their work here was finished.

The two Elves then began their journey back to Troy, relieved to hear Hector behind them calling out orders for the army to fall back. Little did any of them realize that the fire alone had already done more damage than they would have ever dared to dream.

**Author's End Note:** Sorry if this one's a mite shorter than most of my others, but I really wanted to end it this way, and you'll see why exactly in the next chapter. I hope you all enjoyed it! Especially you, Tori - consider this a kind of reciprocation for all the enjoyment I'm getting out of your story! Maybe I should have his foot eat him at some point as the ultimate torment, lol! Thanks everyone, ttyl!


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary: **Achilles' heel is not his only weakness. An AU crossover between Troy and Second Age Middle Earth. Focal characters include Patroclus, Achilles, and Gil-galad, along with many others from both stories.

**Disclaimer: **I don't own them, but I often wish I did.

**Author's Note: **Yay, update is finally finished! I'm rather pleased with this chapter, it was very fun to write! As usual, review thanks to my Ever-Faithful Foursome: **Whilom, Tori, Brandi, **and **lozvamp**! Brandi, it's a joy to have you back with us, as I knew you would be, and special hats off to Tori for the wonderful similarities in our respective Troy stories! Lol, great minds think alike, my long-lost twin, and I've also inserted a little something in here that's guaranteed to make you smile! I'm sure you'll find it, no problem. So thanks again to everyone for your support, it's so encouraging! Please enjoy, and I'll ttyl!

**Chapter 10**

Achilles son of Peleus stood as straight and unmoving as a stone pillar in one of the Greek temples, staring down with unblinking eyes at the still-smoking pile of ashes at his feet. He would not cry, would not yet allow himself that luxury. Not until the black anger that consumed his heart was satiated. Only then would he give in to the grief, such overwhelming sorrow like he'd never felt before.

His dry eyes burned, and his vision was tainted red, yet it was not the lingering smoke in the air that was to blame. It was his all-consuming rage that so affected him, rage focused unwaveringly on Hector, that accursed Prince of Troy who Achilles now knew had headed the fiery attack last night. The invulnerable warrior knelt and scooped up some of the precious ashes, shifting them almost affectionately in his hand before letting them fall back to the ground.

He would see Hector reduced to ash, even if his dying breath was required of him. For Patroclus was dead, burned to death in his sleep as his tent was consumed in flames around him. Achilles had not found out until morning. He had been fully prepared to leave the Trojan shores behind him forever, until he saw the pile of smoking rubble that had once been his beloved cousin's shelter. There would be no going home now.

They had not even been able to find the boy's bones or any other relic Achilles might have treasured hereafter, which had initially led the famed warlord to dare hope that his young cousin might not have been in his tent when the fires had found it. But they had searched far and wide with no success, no sign of the boy to be found anywhere. And what was more, the Trojan attack had come very late, just before the first light of the sun appeared in the East, and there was no reason why Patroclus would have been away from his shelter at such a time. Even if he had been upset.

Achilles' hands clenched into tight fists at his sides as he remembered, the emotional agony more unbearable than any physical pain he'd ever known. He would rather be caught in the hellish flames himself than be forced to remember his last words to the boy. He had been angry, it was true; but had he only known that he would never have the chance to speak with his cousin again, none of it would have mattered. And had he only known of the pending Trojan attack, they would most surely have left last night, rather than wait until morning.

But it was too late now. The boy was lost to him forever, and regret would accomplish nothing in avenging his death. The blonde warrior's steely blue eyes hardened, as cold and cruel as the bronze with which he killed. There would indeed be vengeance, and Hector would know in his final moments the black, murderous rage of Achilles.

Eudorus and the other Myrmidons wisely stood back at a respectful distance, yet their concern for their commander and what grievous action he might take in light of this recent tragedy was written on every somber face. They had no desire to see their captain suffer alone, but they knew him well enough to realize any attempt at comfort would be met with violent resistance. And so they let him be.

At long last, after the sun had fully risen to greet the day, Achilles deliberately turned away from the ashes and strode purposefully over to where his men had gathered.

"Eudorus," he called shortly to his second-in-command.

"My lord?" the other replied at once as he stepped forward.

"I need my armor."

Eudorus bowed his head and hurried to carry out the brisk command. Soon afterward, Achilles was fully armed for battle, grim determination set within his eyes. He stepped outside his tent, about to order that his horses and chariot be brought forward, when he found his path suddenly obstructed.

"Stand aside, Odysseus."

But the composed king of Ithaca did not move. "Where are you going, Achilles?"

The great warrior was in no mood for this; his patience this morning was already nonexistent.

"You know where I am going," he snarled at last. "And you know full well what I intend to do."

He again tried to move around Odysseus, but again the older man stopped him.

"Even you cannot conquer Troy by yourself – especially not with Gil-galad present."

Achilles sighed, frustrated beyond expression. "Then tell Agamemnon to ready his groveling hordes for another attack; and be sure to let him know that, this time, Achilles son of Peleus will be marching with them."

But Odysseus only shook his head, not yielding an inch. "The men are tired, my friend. They have been awake for many hours battling the fire."

"And a fine job they did of it!" the Myrmidon lord bitterly interrupted, his eyes blazing with a new fire all their own.

"Calm yourself, Achilles," the other counseled him gently. "Patience. The time will come for vengeance, but it is not now. Wait but a few more days, in which time you can grieve properly for your cousin."

"I will not grieve," the enraged demigod retorted sharply. "Not until the hot blood from Hector's throat runs down my blade."

Odysseus nodded slowly, still as miraculously calm as ever. "So be it, then. But I would still beg you to wait for a better time. Besides," he went on, and there was something in the king's voice that made Achilles give him his full attention, noticing for the first time that his old friend was idly turning a small wooden toy horse in his hands. "I have an idea."

* * *

Gil-galad bade farewell to Cirdan as they passed by the older Elf's chambers, then continued on to his own. Once Hector and the Trojan army returned, Gil-galad knew he would be summoned to give an account to the city officials as to why he had demanded that their attack be terminated, but hopefully there would still be sufficient time to check on his young captive beforehand.

He sighed. It had turned out to be a far longer night than anticipated, with the first rays of sun just breaking across the horizon as he and Cirdan arrived back at the city. And considering the grueling war council that undoubtedly lay ahead, he could only hope that all would go well with frightened child he had dragged back into the city.

Yet as he made his way further toward his quarters, the High Elven King was aware of muffled noises reminiscent of a brawl coming from up ahead. He frowned, perplexed, yet hastened his pace all the same. And when the cruel laughter finally reached his ears, everything fell into place – the boy!

Cursing under his breath and offering up a swift prayer that no serious harm had been done, Gil-galad sprinted the remaining distance to his chambers. And when he at last arrived, what he saw disgusted him. Four Trojan soldiers stood gathered around the young Greek who still knelt in the same position as when Gil-galad had left him – bound and utterly helpless, with not even the faintest hope of defending himself.

With their backs all facing him, the Trojans did not hear Gil-galad enter, and he was glad. His spear, Aiglos, given to him only recently as a gift from Celebrimbor, stood leaning against the wall near the door. He took hold of the tall weapon and came up silently behind the men, in absolutely no humor to deal with the situation diplomatically. Cirdan would have frowned upon this course of action, he was sure; but the old shipwright was not here, and the High King would proceed as he alone saw fit. In a matter of three swift, smooth strokes with the shaft end of his spear, he had all four men on the ground in pain, looking up at him in shock and anger.

"What's the meaning of this?" one of the indignant soldiers demanded, a slight trickle of blood running down the side of his head from where he'd been struck.

"I was about to ask you the same thing," Gil-galad retorted in equal agitation, his fingers drumming impatiently on the neck of his spear. "Do you have any idea who this boy is?"

"Yes," the same man answered him, wiping the blood from his face and leaving a pinkish smear against his skin. "I heard you tell the other Elf who he was."

"Then you should know how valuable he is!" the Elven King shot back, though inwardly he was berating only himself. Cirdan had been correct about keeping the boy's identity a secret, but clearly, the warning had come too late.

"We know all that his cousin has done," added another Trojan who knelt on the ground, now nursing a sorely bruised knee. "That monster killed both of my brothers, and surely you could not expect me to ignore such a perfect opportunity for vengeance!"

"You seem well-acquainted with Achilles," Gil-galad noted with a grim smile. "But did you not then consider that your actions here would only enrage him further? Do you wish to bring him down upon this city like some angered deity? For all your hatred of the man, it would seem you have little respect for his abilities."

The Trojan only scoffed. "You are afraid _our_ actions will anger Achilles?" he protested, his tone accusatory. "_You_ are the one who kidnapped his cousin in the first place!"

"And with no intention of harming him any more than was absolutely necessary," the Elf explained, his tolerance for these fools growing dangerously thin.

"Yet you clearly have no fear of Achilles," the first man spoke again. "If you are bold enough to capture this boy, why should we hesitate to act against him as well?"

Gil-galad pursed his lips into a thin line and shifted the long spear in his hands before replying. "Because my protection is not guaranteed. I am here of my own volition, in case you had forgotten, and it was likewise my own choice to capture the boy. But I can just as easily take him back this very morning, exactly as he is, and tell Achilles what you have done."

There was no response as the Trojans absorbed the consequences of the subtle threat associated with those words, and Gil-galad took that as a sign to end this most unproductive conflict.

"Get out," he ordered, gesturing sharply toward the door with Aiglos.

His piercing eyes shone with a light of anger the mortals had never before encountered, and the Trojans wisely deduced that it was time for them to be gone. They collectively picked themselves up off the floor and cautiously made their way around the angered Elf King. Gil-galad watched them go, moving as they left to position himself between the Trojans and the now pitiful object of their play.

Once the offenders had made their ignoble retreat, Gil-galad returned Aiglos to its resting place along the wall, noting with pleasure once again that the elegant weapon felt continually more at home in his hands. Spear-work was not easy. Indeed, it had taken centuries of training, most of which came from Cirdan himself, before the High King of the Elves was confident enough to rely fully on a spear in battle. Now, it was by far his favorite, and virtually his only, weapon. He bore a shield prior to battle, but that was entirely for show. And he was well-pleased with Aiglos. Indeed, he had no doubt this beautiful "snow thorn" would serve him long and well.

Yet unfortunately, he could not control doings of the rest of the world as well as he could handle a spear, as recent events confirmed. He was still facing Aiglos, his back turned to the boy, and he sighed wearily, affectionately running his hand once more along the shaft. He should not put this off, as it would not be long before Priam called for him again. But he had not been prepared for this. He closed his eyes a moment, steeling himself, and finally turned around.

The young Greek was hunched over as far as his restraints would allow, the trembling of his bloodied and battered form visible even from a distance. His head lolled limply to one side, but a faint moan still escaped past the gag, now soaked in blood that ran freely from his nose.

Uncertain for the first time since his arrival at Troy, Ereinion Gil-galad walked slowly over to the boy and knelt beside him. He reached for the child, hesitating briefly before opting to remove the blindfold first. The sweat-drenched cloth was drawn away with gratifying ease, but one look at the youth's eyes told the Elf that the cloth was damp with far more than sweat alone.

The boy looked back at him with dazed eyes, eyes as blue as the sea and just as wet. Gil-galad steadily met that hopeless gaze, all the while hating the dull, jaded look in the child's stare. He stretched out his hand once more, but when the youth saw him coming, he uttered a strangled cry of fear and tried frantically to pull away, though he managed only to partially turn his body the other way.

"Shh," Gil-galad attempted to soothe him. "Easy, child. I will not hurt you."

But the boy reacted like a caged and frightened animal, the words clearly not registering. His frenzied resistance did him no good, though, and he suddenly succumbed to a painful fit of trying to cough around the gag. Gil-galad seized the moment as an opportune distraction to pull off the hateful gag, but found to his dismay that the Trojans had drawn it tighter. Seeing that he would not be able to remove it with his hands alone, the Elven King drew a small dagger from his belt, the only weapon he now carried with him into battle besides Aiglos, at Cirdan's insistence.

Upon seeing a drawn blade, the young Greek's eyes grew wide in sheer terror, and he turned his head as far away as possible, if for no other reason than to make his face a less presentable target. Yet that was exactly what Gil-galad needed to reach, and he gently cupped the boy's chin in his hand, attempting to turn him back. But when the youth still sought to pull away, the Elf found himself needing to be firmer than he had originally intended until at last he held the boy steady.

Realizing he was caught yet again, the child squeezed his eyes shut against it all, tears trailing down his bruised cheeks. He flinched when the cold steel touched his skin, but his captor still held him fast, and no harm was done as the gag was carefully cut away. Rid of the cursed thing at last, he turned his head away from Gil-galad's now relenting grip and miserably coughed up the blood that had gathered in the back of his throat, slowly choking him. The Elven King looked on in silent sympathy as the boy's weakened body shook with the agonizing exertion. He got up to retrieve a flask of water and, when the boy had finished, held it to his lips.

"It is just water, child," the Elf assured him when he shied away. "Drink."

Weary at last of his resistance, the boy complied, swallowing obediently until the flask was taken away, for Gil-galad knew too much would do more harm than good. The Greek was still bent over, exhausted in every sense of the word, until his captor eased him back upright so that he rested once more against the pillar behind him. His breath came in short gasps, and he was clearly terrified beyond expression, still making feeble efforts to draw away from the Elf's touch.

Gil-galad gave a quick inspection of the boy's wounds – bruises, lacerations, and vicious welts from what must have been a leather strap. He gingerly fingered the worst of the bruises on the boy's head, feeling for any damage to his skull, and the youth cringed, looking away from his captor and clenching his teeth against the pain.

The King then lifted up the young mortal's black shirt, wincing himself when he saw the fierce bruises that were already appearing. He very gently laid a hand against the boy's bare chest, feeling him shudder at the touch, though he thankfully made no more desperate measures to pull away.

"Breathe, little one," Gil-galad commanded him for the second time in their brief interactions, for the child seemed have gone rigid beneath the Elf's hand, holding his breath in fearful anticipation. "Breathe as deeply as you can. Slowly," he added when the boy's breath then came out in a rush. He inhaled again, struggling to control his breathing and grimacing with the excruciating effort.

Gil-galad was grateful that the child's slender frame allowed him to feel his ribs through his skin as he breathed, but he still frowned deeply at the prospective damage. He would need to examine the boy more closely in order to adequately gauge just how badly he was hurt. He wanted very much to untie the child so he could care for him more thoroughly, yet he feared the youth would only injure himself further should he renew his hectic attempts to escape.

Coming to a clear decision at last, Gil-galad rose to his feet once more and this time returned with a small vial. The boy's weary eyes widened anxiously when they landed on the vial, and again he tried to squirm away, apprehensive of the contents.

"It is only a mild sedative," the Elven King reassured him in a low, steady voice. "Child, I promise no further harm will come to you. But you will drink this, one way or another. Please do not make this any more difficult than need be."

The youth stared at him for a moment, swallowing thickly as he considered his options. But finally the tension drained visibly from his tortured body, and he weakly nodded his head in abject submission. The questionable vial was presented to him, and he drank, nervously running his tongue over bloody lips when it was drained. Gil-galad slipped the empty bottle into a pocket of his cloak and watched as the boy's eyelids soon began to droop, his body slowly going limp as it succumbed at last to exhaustion.

Satisfied that the drug had taken effect, Gil-galad spread out several fur blankets on the floor nearby and severed the bonds that held the young Greek's hands and feet, hearing the boy groan as the pressure was finally relieved from his aching limbs. He caught the youth as he slumped forward and easily moved to lay him out on the furs. Barely conscious, the boy still sought to curl up on himself in response to the agony he could now only partially feel.

Gil-galad knelt beside him, laying a gentle hand on the youth's shoulder to still the involuntary trembling while using a damp cloth to clean the dried blood from his face. But proper care would take time, which he was rapidly running out of. If only the boy would surrender completely to the sedative and sleep...

"Ereinion?"

Though in truth he had been startled, the High King showed no outward surprise at the voice coming suddenly from his door, and he was grateful for that small favor from fate. The Valar only knew his visitor did not need such gratification again in so short a time.

"I know, Cirdan," he called back, without yet turning around from the boy. "I am coming."

He stood and turned to find the ancient shipwright standing in the doorframe, his expression a mixture of concern and quiet pity, but hardly of surprise.

"Stay with him, Cirdan, until I return," Gil-galad requested of his old guardian, gesturing back to the child lying helpless on the ground behind him. "You were right, and I am sorry I did not heed your words sooner."

Cirdan nodded. "As I've told you many times before, young one, the best laid plans of Elves and Men oft go awry because of ill timing such as this. I shall remain, though I doubt the Trojans would dare return now." He cast a pointed glance at the red blood strewn across the floor, too close to the door to have come from the young Greek. "Would you like me to tend to him while you are gone?"

"No," the raven-haired Elf replied, shaking his head. "Only see to it that he does not cause further injury to himself. I will care for him myself when I return."

"Your own special project, then, Ereinion?"

Gil-galad paused just as he was about to leave the room and sadly smiled back at his friend and mentor. "This entire scheme has been my 'special project,' Cirdan. And now I can only hope it has not all been in vain."

With that, he departed for the Trojan war room, where all at last would be revealed.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary:** Achilles' heel is not his only weakness. An AU crossover between Troy and Second Age Middle Earth. Focal characters include Patroclus, Achilles, and Gil-galad, along with many others from both stories.

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing! It all belongs to Prof. Tolkien and...Homer, I guess.

**Author's Note:** Wow, I am overwhelmed and incredibly honored by the positive responses to that last chapter! I'm so happy you all enjoyed reading it as much as I did writing it! Cheers to my Faithful Foursome: **Brandi**, **Whilom**, **Tori** and **lozvamp** for the great reviews, and welcome **Snowgurl54** with her wonderful smiley faces! You guys are the best, I love you all! Now, I know I make the Trojans out to be kinda lame in this story, but if you think about it, they really are pretty dumb in the movie, too. Except Hector, of course, he's always cool, lol! Ok, so onto the chapter now, and please enjoy!

**Chapter 11**

The low hum of murmurings amongst the city elders of Troy ceased immediately when the High King of the Elves made his long-awaited entrance. The city officials all rose to acknowledge his approach, but Gil-galad paid them no heed as he passed them by and marched directly toward King Priam.

The elderly Trojan monarch spoke first, his tone a well-practiced blend of bewilderment and subtle accusation. "Friend Gil-galad, please explain these recent actions. Why did you call off our attack? We were in perfect position to drive the Greeks from our shores once and for all."

"Have you heard nothing I've said, Priam?" the evidently frustrated Elf responded. "You need only to beat your enemies back from the city as you did before, not expel them from the land yourselves. They will tire and withdraw of their own accord if you will let them be and give them time to honestly consider the odds of their success."

"But their morale was weak after the defeat of that first battle," argued Glaucus, the seasoned General of Troy. "With the proper persuasion, they would have fled or been destroyed this very morning."

"Or they would have united against a common enemy and finally used their greater numbers to their advantage, now that the battle had moved away from the city walls," Gil-galad pressed back. "Surely Prince Hector must have voiced his concerns that such dire circumstances would likely draw out Achilles, this Greek warrior whom you all claim to fear; yet you would provoke him to return to battle without a moment's hesitation."

"Hector did bring up such a possibility," Priam interjected slowly with a sidelong glance at his eldest son. "But the signs of fair omen presented by our priests were sufficient enough to convince us that the attack should commence immediately. I only pray Apollo is not angered that we have failed to avenge the desecration of his temple."

Gil-galad could hardly suppress the urge to roll his eyes. These mortals may call them "gods" and "goddesses," but the Elves knew these powerful entities well as the Valar and the Maiar, servants of Eru Iluvatar, the One. By "Apollo," Priam truly meant Arien, the Maia spirit who guided the sun on its daily course. But no matter. Let these mortals cling to their skewed religions! All would journey to the Halls of Mandos in the end, regardless of their beliefs.

"I'm sure Apollo can afford a little patience in the matter," he replied at last, barely taming the cutting edge of sarcasm that crept into his voice. "As can you. For if you wait but a few days more, Achilles will be gone; and then I too shall leave you, my quest fulfilled, in which case you will be free to do as you wish with the Greeks that remain. But wait at least until I have rid you of Achilles before you attack again. The last thing you need, good King Priam, is to give him an excuse to fight."

"But how do you intend to eliminate Achilles if he doesn't fight?" Hector questioned, his brow furrowed in thought. "I believe you mentioned having some sort of a plan?"

"Yes, I did," the Elven King answered with a nod of his dark head, but Priam interrupted before he could continue.

"Does it have anything to do with this boy you have reportedly brought back into the city? For I hear you have already defended him most vehemently."

After engaging in another brief internal session of "What would Cirdan do?" Gil-galad chose to ignore his new colleague's thinly concealed, yet entirely blatant incrimination before responding.

"As a matter of fact, it has everything to do with the boy, and it is for that reason that I have taken his defense upon myself. If he is harmed, it could mean disaster for everything I have set in place."

"But why?" Hector again contended, leaning forward from where he sat beside his father. "Please, will you not simply tell us what your intentions are? And who is this boy that he is so invaluable?"

Gil-galad let the silence following that inquiry linger in the still, tense air of the war room for a moment.

"He is Achilles' cousin – his greatest weakness, and one I mean to exploit fully." Seeing that he had the undivided attention of all present, the Elf began to slowly pace about the council, making deliberate eye contact with any of the elders or officials who would dare meet his piercing gaze.

"While concealed within the Greek encampments, I observed that Achilles has no great love for Agamemnon, and that in fact, he only remains with the army out of his desire for personal gain. But I believe that with the 'proper persuasion,' as General Glaucus has said, it would not be difficult to convince him to leave altogether."

Hector nodded his comprehension, his face pensive. "Ah, now I see where you are going with all of this – you mean to hold the boy hostage."

"Correct," Gil-galad confirmed, "and all I have asked of Achilles in exchange for his cousin's safety is that he and his Myrmidons leave Troy, with an oath never to return."

"He knows about this, then?" Priam asked.

The Elf nodded. "I left a note of ransom in the boy's tent last night after I had captured him, and it is my understanding that he and Achilles are very close. I can assure you, the boy will be missed ere long, and when his cousin at last searches the tent, no further explanation will be required."

"How long did you give Achilles to respond?" the eldest Prince of Troy inquired.

"Three days," his immortal ally replied, "beginning this morning."

"And if he refuses to comply?" posed Priam. "What of the boy then?"

"I have tried to make my demands as simple as possible, for I would wish Achilles to have a very easy decision before him," Gil-galad elaborated. "I do not believe he will refuse me. But, if he should, the boy is still my captive, and I will do with him as I best see fit. His fate shall remain my responsibility, not yours."

Glaucus rose in challenge to the Elf. "But is he not also a prisoner of war, and therefore liable for treatment as such?"

"He is also a child!" the immortal son of Fingon snapped, his previous indignation toward the offensive Trojan soldiers resurfacing in a flash of fury. "He has already undergone such 'treatment' in abundance, and I tell you now there will be no more of it."

The old general opened his mouth in rebuttal, yet wisely decided against it when he saw the light of fierce ire in the Elven King's grey eyes.

"You will not lay a hand on him again in his time here," Gil-galad went on. He had lowered his voice, but the cold steel underlying his tone portrayed that his earnestness had not diminished in the least. "My terms to Achilles require his departure in exchange for his cousin's _safe_ return. If I am unable to uphold my end of this agreement, I cannot demand total cooperation from him. I want to help you, men of Troy, for my father's sake; but if any further harm comes to this boy, I will be sorely tempted to return him to Achilles myself before leaving you to your fate." His eyes narrowed warningly. "_My_ only prayer, King Priam, is that you do not make me regret my decision to come here."

There was no response from the Trojan officials for some time, and even the heavy air around them seemed to be holding its breath in apprehension. It was Hector who finally broke the silence.

"It will be as you wish, my lord, and I swear the boy will be left entirely in your charge."

Gil-galad inclined his head. "I thank you, Prince Hector, yet I can see you have not finished."

The prince hesitated slightly. "Yes," he admitted slowly, "there is something else, something I wish to know only for my own sake. Are you not at all concerned that Achilles will retaliate against these terms with violence? That he may perhaps even challenge you to single combat over his cousin rather than simply bow to your wishes?"

"I have considered that possibility," the royal Elf confessed. "But I still firmly believe that Achilles will give his cousin's well-being the greatest priority, and therefore he would not dare threaten me directly as long as the boy remains within these walls. However," he added before Hector could voice the increasingly-popular 'what-if?' scenario, "should Achilles choose to respond with hostility, I daresay his anger would hardly be a sufficient detriment to my plans."

"But you have never even seen him fight," Hector finally put in, somewhat exasperated that he seemed to be the only one who entertained proper respect for Achilles' talents in this twisted game of war. "He is a most gifted killer."

A faint smile played across the High King's features. "With all due respect, Prince Hector, you have never seen me fight, either. Now, I know full well that I am not invincible, and I may very well meet my end someday on the field of battle. For indeed, such seems to be the fate of any who would claim the title of 'High Elven King.' But mark my words, young prince: if I am to die, it will not be at the hands of any mortal – no matter how 'gifted'."

The suddenly intense conviction in the immortal monarch's voice would clearly suffer no argument, and none dared to speak out against him again.

"I am sorry, my lord," an abashed Hector apologized at last. "Please know, I meant no offense."

"And there was none taken," Gil-galad assured him, speaking gently once more. "But may I now presume that we are of equal understanding in regards to Achilles?"

"Yes, my friend," Priam answered for all the Trojans present. "We will refrain from any further attacks against the Greeks until this issue with Achilles is resolved – in which case, I assume you will be leaving, according to our previous agreement?"

The Elf King wordlessly nodded his assent, and the King of Troy continued.

"In that case, this council is adjourned until a response is obtained from Achilles concerning his cousin. May the gods be with us."

* * *

Cirdan looked up from the worn book he had been idly paging through when he heard the door open and rose from his chair to greet his sovereign.

"Ereinion, you return sooner than I had expected."

"Not soon enough, I'm afraid, for it seems these Trojans would unwittingly undo all the aid that I have offered them." Gil-galad sighed and wearily rubbed a hand on the back of his neck. "Sometimes, Cirdan, I wonder if it isn't easier dealing with mortals or with small Elven children, for the results with both are astoundingly similar."

"Oh, I don't know about that," the gruff shipwright replied, a slight smile almost imperceptible beneath his beard. "I can recall enduring some trials at your infliction many years ago that would tempt me very much to prefer working with these mortals over the alternative."

Despite his persisting aggravation, the younger Elf found himself smiling at that; yet he knew he could not legitimately debate his old guardian on the topic, as his argument would be doomed to failure from the start. But speaking of mortals and children…

Gil-galad turned to face the still form lying on the floor across the room. The boy did not appear to have moved much in his captor's absence. "How is he?"

"He fell asleep soon after you left and has remained so since," Cirdan replied quietly, moving to stand beside his former charge. "Though I daresay you will have your hands full when he wakes, Ereinion."

The Elven King snorted softly. "No doubt. It is regrettable the Trojans had to make this all so much more complicated than it already is."

"How soon do you expect to hear from Achilles?"

"Any time now, honestly," Gil-galad replied with a glance out the window. "Certainly before sunset. And it is almost midday now, so it's only a matter of time before the boy is missed. But I almost find myself hoping Achilles will be longer in replying than I anticipate, for it would give his cousin at least some time to recuperate before we return him."

Cirdan nodded his understanding, then turned to go. "In that case, Ereinion, I will leave you to tend to him. But take some rest yourself when you are through, for I can tell when you are tired after all these years, no matter how you try to conceal it from me. And remember that you need only call should you require my assistance."

Gil-galad gratefully inclined his head in reply, smiling warmly. "I shall remember, dear friend, and thank you."

With that, the ancient shipwright of the Elves withdrew, leaving King and captive alone once more. When his mentor had departed, Gil-galad went over and knelt again by the unconscious young Greek. The youth lay on his side, unmoving in a deathlike sleep brought on by sheer exhaustion and aided by the drug.

Gil-galad gently rolled the boy onto his back, cautious not out of fear that his prisoner would wake, but of fear that the movement would only serve to inflict more damage. He pushed the boy's damp blonde hair away from his face, noting for the first time how truly young he was, despite his tall frame – little more than a child, even in the reckoning of Men. The Elf gingerly ran his fingers over the dark bruises that shadowed the youth's pale face, disquieted by the knowledge that it would be a matter of weeks before the dark marks were gone entirely. Achilles would not be pleased.

With a heavy sigh, the Elf King rose to retrieve necessary supplies for the child's care. He finished wiping the sweat and dry blood from the boy's face before applying ointment to the all-too numerous welts and bruises. He then proceeded to give the same treatment to the youth's arms, including his wrists that had been badly bruised and chafed from pulling against the binding ropes.

There seemed to be little harm done to the young Greek's legs, his upper body having absorbed the brunt of the attack while he was forced to kneel; rather it was the boy's torso that worried Gil-galad the most – injuries to his ribs were very likely, almost guaranteed, and possibly to his organs as well. He carefully removed the boy's shirt altogether, and it was unsettling to see that the damage looked almost worse than he remembered.

Gently feeling each rib as the child drew shallow breaths in his slumber, Gil-galad finally concluded with great relief that, although many ribs were badly bruised and possibly cracked, none had been severely broken. He wrapped the boy's chest in tight bandages, hoping to apply pressure and perhaps limit his mobility when he awoke. So the youth's wounds would indeed be painful and long in recovering, but thankfully, none appeared to be life-threatening.

The Elven monarch then draped one of the fur blankets over his sleeping captive and walked over to the window. It was mid-afternoon now, the sun lazily beginning its downward trek into the far West. He frowned. Why had he not heard from Achilles? Surely the famed warrior could not go much longer without noticing his cousin's absence. Perhaps he was simply taking time to prepare for his departure before coming to claim the boy, and hence, the delayed response? No matter. It was yet early, and there was hardly cause to begin worrying.

Cirdan's words came back to the regal Elf then, reminding him to rest when he had finished with the child. And indeed, he was tired. The past two days and nights had been entirely too long, and far more stressful than he would have hoped. But first things first – he must brief his own troops on the situation before they themselves were misled. And though he knew his loyal soldiers would take no action without a direct command from their King, it was only fair that he keep them adequately informed.

And so with one last glance at the young boy who looked unspeakably weary even in his sleep, Gil-galad slipped noiselessly from the room, the click of the latch disproportionately loud in the serenity as he locked the door behind him.

**Author's End Note:** Well, that's that! I hope some questions were answered, and we can all see how things are majorly screwed up for our favorite characters. Poor boys! Sniffles. But Patroclus will wake up in the next chapter, I promise, so wish me luck! Thanks a bunch, everyone, I'll ttyl!


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary: **Achilles' heel is not his only weakness. An AU crossover between Troy and Second Age Middle Earth. Focal characters include Patroclus, Achilles, and Gil-galad, along with many others from both stories.

**Disclaimer: **I don't own, you don't sue, and everybody's happy.

**Author's Note: **A thousand thanks to **Whilom** and **Tori** for sticking with me through this one, and for posting some fabulous fanfics of their own recently! I certainly hope to hear from everyone else again soon, and I'm sure **Brandi** will make her dramatic reappearance ere long. That girl can't hide from us forever, lol! So yeah, that's really all there is to say, except that this was another very fun chapter to write, and hope you all can enjoy it as much as I did. Hugs!

**Chapter 12**

As consciousness slowly dawned, Patroclus became gradually aware of a blissful softness beneath him. He curled his hands around it, tempted to abandon this journey toward wakefulness and succumb once more to the enticing call of sleep; but a nagging sensation in the back of his mind forbade it. A light draft of air tickled his face, and there was a strange herbal smell lingering in his nose.

With a weary groan, he pried his eyes open and looked around. He was lying on the floor of a spacious room while sunlight and a gentle breeze drifted in through a nearby window that looked out toward the Sea. He didn't recognize the room at first, but there was an undeniable, persistent feeling that something important had happened here. Why didn't he remember?

The young Greek then tried to sit up, pushing himself up off the pile of furs and upsetting the one which had been laid on top of him; but he was instantly arrested by a stabbing pain in his side, and dropped back down to the floor with a quick hiss. His chest ached so badly every breath hurt, and now that he was attempting to move, he realized everything hurt! His arms and legs were sore, and his head throbbed dizzyingly. Where was his cousin?

"Achilles?" he called, trying to shout the name, but it came out more like a labored gasp. There was no answer.

Patroclus swallowed thickly around a dry mouth, his apprehension rising, and he finally forced himself upright. Where was he? How had he gotten here? He frantically looked around the room again, noticing for the first time that his shirt was off and that his chest had been bandaged. At least that would explain why it hurt to even breathe. He spotted his shirt lying off to the side and grabbed it, wincing painfully as he struggled to pull the black garment over his head.

"Achilles?" he tried again, but still only silence answered.

The aspiring Myrmidon grimaced at the effort of simply drawing breath, and buried his face in his hands, at last observing the dark bruises that covered his arms as well. What in Hades had happened?

Patroclus couldn't remember ever feeling more miserable than this, but he had to discover what was going on. Knowing he would have little luck standing up on his own power, he crawled over to a nearby pillar in the corner of the room and pulled himself upright, using the pillar as his support. His head swam when he stood, the room spinning and his vision darkening, so he clenched his eyes shut and clung desperately to the column until the spell had passed.

Already trembling from the exertion, he cautiously opened his eyes and was elated when the room remained stationary. But he frowned when he looked down and saw troubling stains of red on the white column to which he clung and on the surrounding floor. Then he remembered.

Stunned as though struck by the broad side of a sword, Patroclus sank back to the floor, his legs giving way beneath his deadweight. He groaned as the memories came crashing in on him – the argument with Achilles, his capture on the beach, and the subsequent journey to the city in total darkness. And the pillar – this hated column to which he now clung for support – he had been bound to it not long ago. Bound and tortured. A shudder of cold fear coursed through him, and the youth battled the sudden urge to vomit. He had to get out of there before his tormentors returned, and fast.

He let go of the repulsive pillar and backed away from it across the floor, gradually making his way toward the distant door, but still not able to support himself unaided. But despite his compulsion to escape at any cost, a part of him still argued against it. He must be missing something. After all, he had been released and obviously cared for by…someone. Then he saw the strange spear leaning against the wall not far from the door and froze. The Elf King – that was what he'd forgotten.

Suddenly confused, he hesitated. Had the Elf King been the one to give the order for him to be tortured, or to be tended to afterward? Perhaps even both? But deciding it wasn't worth the risk to wait and find out, Patroclus determinedly got to his feet and stumbled the remaining distance to the door, leaning heavily against the wall when he got there so his head could clear. He didn't know where to go once he got out of the room or how he would even get there in this unstable condition, but he had to try. He reached for the door.

* * *

Gil-galad strode down the hall, having just come from another session of counseling with Cirdan after briefing his own troops on the current situation. He would have liked to stay longer with his invaluable mentor, mainly to discuss issues that awaited him upon his return to Lindon, but now it was time to check on his captive. He had spoken truthfully when he'd told the boy it was only a mild sedative, and it should have worn off by now, unless the youth's exhaustion was such that it kept him sleeping. Gil-galad certainly hoped that would be the case.

He paused to unlock the door to his chambers and stepped inside just in time to see the young Greek jump back away from the doorway, his blue eyes wide in panic. Gil-galad likewise stopped short in surprise, allowing for a brief moment of silence in which the youth backed up until he bumped into the far wall, eyeing his captor like a wounded animal caught in a snare. But, Gil-galad noted with some relief, at least he had retained his will to escape.

"The door was locked, child," the raven-haired Elf King said at length, slowly moving closer to the boy. "Though had you escaped, I doubt you would have made it far. You can barely stand."

Indeed, despite his best efforts to conceal it, the youth's breath came in ragged gasps, and he was leaning back against the wall behind him for support, trying to shrink away as his jailor grew nearer.

"Please," he begged in a hoarse whisper. "Please…"

Gil-galad slowed his approach then and spread his hands out at his sides, palms upward so the boy could see them.

"Don't be afraid, child," he said, keeping his voice calm and steady. "I promise I will not hurt you – nor will the Trojans any longer, for that matter. You're safe now, little one."

But even fully conscious, the boy barely seemed to heed his words. No doubt the memories of what he had endured at the hands of the Trojans were so vivid and painful that he was intent solely on escaping that fate before it could repeat itself. He kept his back to the wall, legs shaking unsteadily beneath him while his distrusting eyes never left the Elf.

Gil-galad took another step closer, and the boy moved, suddenly darting around his captor and towards the door with surprising speed in a desperate attempt to flee. But it was not enough. The Elven King grabbed him easily, hearing the youth choke back a cry of pain as the rough contact was made against his bruised flesh. Yet he still resisted with what strength he had, and Gil-galad was forced to restrain the boy by pinning his arms down at his sides and drawing him back against his own broad chest.

The frantic youth fought to pull away, despite his pain, but his captor held him fast, even bringing his hand up to encircle the boy's neck so he could not lift his head away. Gil-galad could already hear Cirdan's denouncement of the action with vivid clarity, yet he hoped such treatment might perhaps get through to the child where words alone had failed. He leaned closer and whispered into the boy's ear.

"Whatever harm you may fear from me, child, know now that it is well within my power to do so." The youth went rigid in his grasp then, trembling fearfully, and the Elf could feel the child's heartbeat pounding wildly against his chest. "But I will not – not now, not ever."

He released his hold then, letting the young mortal stagger forward a few paces until he was caught once more against the wall. He still looked back at his captor, blue eyes apprehensive; but the fight was gone, and resignation seemed to have at last set in. Yet with his adrenaline rush and blind fear fading fast, the boy began to sway unsteadily on his feet, feeble strength finally failing him, and Gil-galad swiftly stepped forward to catch him in strong hands before he could fall.

And although the youth still tensed at his touch, the Elven King was grateful that no attempt was made to pull away. He guided the boy over to the room's large bed and eased him down onto the edge. The young Greek leaned over where he sat, holding his aching head in his hands and quivering with each excruciating breath. Clearly, his mad dash for freedom had done him little good. Gil-galad retrieved a cup of fresh water and sat down on the bed beside the boy, just within arm's reach.

"Here, little one," he said, holding the glass out in front of the child. "It is only water."

Raising his head, the boy eyed him warily, but he took the cup with still-shaking hands and slowly drank. Gil-galad accepted the empty glass back when the youth had finished and simply observed his weary captive in silence for a moment. Thankfully, the tension no longer hung in the air like some thick fog.

"Do your injuries still pain you, child?" he inquired at length.

A mute nod.

"And I'm afraid it will continue so, for full recovery will require much rest and time. Do you remember what happened?"

Another nod.

"Then you needn't be frightened, for I swear I will not allow such things to happen to you again."

The boy continued to stare down at the floor, his brow furrowed. "We are in Troy?" he asked softly.

"Yes."

After another pause, the child at last turned to face at him directly. "And you're Gil-galad, aren't you – the Elf King?"

"I am. And what is your name, child?" Gil-galad knew the youth's name, of course – had heard the older Myrmidon mention it several times during his first excursion into the Greek camps. But he wanted to hear it from the child himself, to know if the boy could be trusted to answer truthfully.

And indeed, the youth hesitated, nervously working moisture into his dry lips as he weighed the alternatives. He wisely decided on the truth. "Patroclus," he replied quietly, "son of Menoetius."

"Well met, Patroclus," the Elf responded with a gracious nod.

But the boy still frowned as he tried to piece things together. "What time is it?"

"Late afternoon – I imagine there are four or five hours of daylight left. And you have been here since very early this morning," he added when he saw the unspoken question in the youth's eyes.

"Patroclus," Gil-galad deliberately continued when the child remained silent, "surely you must realize now that there is no escaping this city, as you must also realize that the Trojans have little love for you or your cousin." The twitch of the boy's face at that comment was almost imperceptible, but the Elf's keen eyes missed none of it. "I can protect you, young one, but your safety is guaranteed only within this room, and not beyond."

The King reached over and gently lifted the youth's chin with his fingers, turning him so that their eyes met. "Child, if you can promise that you will not leave this room unless attended by me personally, for your own security, it will be sufficient for me. Manwe knows I have little desire to keep you bound here all this time, but I will if necessary."

The young Greek paused, considering, then nodded his head, even as it was still held in the Elf's grasp. "I promise."

"Will you swear to me on your honor?"

"Yes – I will stay here. I swear it."

"Very well, then," Gil-galad concluded and released his captive's chin.

Patroclus swallowed hard, eyes sporadically flickering to and from his captor's face. "What do you want with me?" he whispered, helpless and confused.

"It is not so much what I want with you, as with your cousin," Gil-galad answered after a deep sigh.

"Achilles?" the boy exclaimed immediately, his voice rising in concern for his beloved kinsman. "What do you mean?"

"Before bringing you back to the city last night, I left a note of ransom in your tent, detailing my demands to Achilles in exchange for your return."

Terror filled the youth's eyes once again, but this time, it wasn't for himself. "Don't hurt him," he pleaded, fearful that the Elf King's terms would require Achilles to give up his own freedom, or even his life, for the child he had raised over the past seven years. "Do what you want with me, but please don't hurt him!"

Gil-galad couldn't hold back a grin at the boy's impassioned response, though he quickly proceeded to allay his young prisoner's fears. "Do not worry, child, for I can see where your thoughts have led you. But I assure you, my intentions are nothing of the sort. All I want is for your cousin and his men to leave Troy and never return. If Achilles agrees to this, you will be returned to him alive and well, without any further trouble. Although, perhaps not as 'well' as I would have liked, thanks to the Trojans." He ran a light fingertip along one of the swollen bruises on the boy's cheek, pleased to see that the child did not shy away.

Patroclus relaxed visibly, though his countenance soon darkened again as he absorbed this latest information. "How long?"

"I have given your cousin three days to respond, as of this morning."

The boy frowned, puzzled. "How did you know which tent was mine?"

"I discovered that during my first time in the Greek camp, the night before last. It was also then that I discovered who you were and conceived my plans."

The youth nodded his understanding, then abruptly let out a weak and bitter laugh.

"What is it?" Gil-galad questioned, perplexed by the outburst.

"Achilles has been right to tell me that the Fates are cruel; we were going to sail home today."

"What?" the Elven King repeated sharply, all bemusement gone from his voice. "When was this decided?"

"Yesterday morning," Patroclus replied, flinching, and he was suddenly anxious again after his captor's terse response. "Achilles is angry with Agamemnon, which is why the Myrmidons didn't fight the other day. Then Achilles decided to leave the war altogether and go home. He gave orders yesterday for everything to be readied so we could leave this morning." Patroclus stopped there, not wanting to provoke the Elf King further or delve any deeper into that subject, lest fresh and painful memories of another sort be brought to light.

Gil-galad waited in contemplative silence a moment before replying. "In that case, it would seem your cousin's departure has only been delayed. But I fear you have already spent too long in the presence of Achilles, Patroclus, for not all anger need have such dire consequences as his." He let his gaze drift out the window for a time, then turned back to the boy. "Are you hungry, child? I imagine it has been long since you last ate."

Lost in his own thoughts, Patroclus roused himself as though waking from a daze and shook his head, doing his best to ignore the consequent pounding. "No – no thank you. I'm just…tired."

"Then sleep," the Elf commanded mildly, rising smoothly from his place on the bedside.

The young Greek made a move to follow suit and return to his place on the floor, a hand reflexively covering his tender side with the action, but a firm grip on his shoulder stopped him.

"Do not trouble yourself, young one," Gil-galad said softly. "Stay here. I will leave you soon, for there are other things that I must see to."

Patroclus faltered, uncertain how to proceed after that; but he found there was little choice in the matter when his captor suddenly took hold of him and eased him back with meticulous care so that he was lying on the bed, a pillow somehow being moved under his head at the same time. The youth tensed again, anxious, but he was simply too exhausted to resist the Elf's gentle manipulations. Another blanket was placed over him, and he was aware of a warm hand on the back of his head.

"Rest easy, child," his companion soothed, feeling the boy's tension beneath his hand. "Relax – and sleep." Gil-galad let his fingers travel slowly down the length of the boy's scalp, along the nape of his neck, and finally to his shoulders. He repeated the motion several times until the child grew visibly more relaxed and finally was still, his breathing quiet and even.

Satisfied that his captive was sleeping soundly, the High King withdrew silently from the room and headed outdoors, engrossed in his contemplations. The boy had been sensitive to his shock upon hearing that Achilles had already determined to leave Troy, yet Gil-galad had never explained why, hoping the child would move past the subject without further thought. But in truth, the noble Elf was deeply troubled by such knowledge.

He had previously credited Achilles' delayed response to the idea that the famed warrior wished to make all the necessary preparations for departure prior to claiming his cousin. But if what Patroclus had told him was true – and there was little reason to doubt the boy's sincerity at this point – it would mean that Achilles had been ready to leave that very morning. That the Greek warlord could have, and _should_ have, come to collect his cousin no later than noon this same day. Yet he had not come. He had sent no word of any kind.

With a disgruntled sigh, the Elven monarch finally ceased his restless pacing along the wall of Troy and turned his gaze westward, toward the dark blemishes along the distant shoreline which were the Greek ships, and toward the Sea, whose alluring whispers would surely beckon his immortal people home throughout the ages until none remained. Heart heavy, Ereinion Gil-galad watched with grim foreboding as the sun set on the first day of Achilles' ransom.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary: **Achilles' heel is not his only weakness. An AU crossover between Troy and Second Age Middle Earth. Focal characters include Patroclus, Achilles, and Gil-galad, along with many others from both stories.

**Disclaimer: **They still aren't mine. I just adore them.

**Author's Note: **My eternal gratitude to all you reviewers, I can't tell you guys how much your encouragement means to me! **Brandi**and**lozvamp**, it was wonderful to hear from you guys again! **Whilom**, girl, have a fabulous vacation, and I'm sure we'll catch up when you get back! **Hospital Horror**, thanks a million for your reviews on some early chapters, and good luck on your own "Capture Patroclus" fic! **Tori**, my long-lost twin, words can't thank you enough for all your support and fantastic ideas for this fic! Thank you also for "Under the Same Sun," it's such an inspiration! Cheers to the striking similarities, lol! You guys all make me so proud of this story, so Thank You yet again, and I'll ttyl!

**Chapter 13**

Gil-galad made his way back to his chambers after night had fallen, inexpressibly relieved to find his young prisoner still deep in sleep, eyelids fluttering slightly as he dreamed – dreams the Elf King could only pray were not too terribly troubled. He knew there was little hope of hearing from Achilles before morning. Unless, of course, the Greek warrior truly deemed himself invincible and decided to attempt a daring late night rescue. But such efforts would be futile. Gil-galad would make sure of it.

Still, apart from the brief incident of that morning, he'd had very little time for spear-work since arriving in Troy; and if Achilles should seek to resolve this situation with violence, the High King of the Elves would see to it that he was at no less than his very best for the confrontation. Yet he was weary, as Cirdan's previous admonitions to rest continually reminded him. Indeed, he had not slept in nearly two days – two extremely long and trying days; yet he had certainly endured worse. Besides, Patroclus required the slumber far more than he did, and a bit of exercise was sure to do him good.

He strode across the room to retrieve Aiglos, all the while recalling an open courtyard he had seen not far from the building where he and his troops were lodged. It would serve nicely.

* * *

The curved spear blade sliced through the night air as Gil-galad moved through the rudimentary training exercises he had practiced for years; but Cirdan had often impressed upon him the importance of basic elements in any fighting style – how it was impossible to excel in any endeavor without solid foundational skills to build upon. The Elf thrived on hearing the swift _swish_ of his weapon as it was swung past his ear and the feel of his long hair, black as the ebony night which enveloped him, flowing across his shoulders with the smooth movements.

As he continued through the motions, he was increasingly pleased with Aiglos, a fact which, considering its maker, came as little surprise. Celebrimbor had indeed done well, and the great smith had every right to take pride in such exquisite handiwork. It was an exceptionally long weapon, more so even than most other Elven spears, as it reached over nine feet in length. But Gil-galad was likewise taller than the majority of his people, and when he held it, the weapon became a part of him, an extension of his arms and sweeping blows from which there was no escape. It was truly a perfect match.

But while the exercise was gratifying, such an elementary routine was scarcely more than a warm-up, not sufficient to make him break a sweat or even breathe hard. It was almost relaxing at this pace. Under the beating rays of the sun, it would surely have been different, but the desert nights of Troy were cool in contrast to the oppressive heat of the day. Gil-galad knew he could have roused any of his soldiers to come spar with him, but they too were resting now, as he also should have been. He would let them be.

"Take care you do not overextend yourself, Ereinion. Remember, the spear affects your balance as though it were another limb."

The dark-haired Elf adjusted his stance slightly and followed through with the set of movements before turning around to behold a tall figure leaning nonchalantly against a column in a far corner of the courtyard.

"Do you never tire of startling me so, Cirdan?"

"Of course not, child. I must have something to entertain me in my 'old age,' mustn't I?"

The younger Elf grinned and resumed his ready stance. "Well, if you must criticize, the least you could do is take up a spear yourself and join me."

"I wouldn't dream of it, Ereinion. Your skills with a spear surpassed mine long ago."

"Yet you still find fault?"

The bearded shipwright chuckled and emerged from the shadows of the column, moving toward his former charge. "You may be more skilled than I, young one, but remember I have been fighting far longer than you have even been alive. It is my place to find fault where others fail to see it – such as why you are out practicing spear-work in the middle of the night when I know you have not slept in over two days."

Gil-galad shook his head, though he knew Cirdan was right, as usual. "So you've been keeping track of my sleeping habits now? Don't you have anything better to do, my old friend?"

"Not here, no. There are no ships to be built in Troy. But worry not, child, you will be rid of my attentions when we return home – at least to a certain degree." He laid a hand on the King's shoulder then, staying him before he could launch into another set of maneuvers. "Take some rest, Ereinion. You will wish you had when Achilles does come."

"I know," his sovereign conceded with a weary sigh. "But that boy needs the rest more than I do."

"How is he?"

Gil-galad shrugged. "He is certainly in poor condition – exhausted, in pain, and very much afraid. But he will recover completely in time. I gave him use of my bed, which is why I came out here."

Cirdan chortled again, but when he spoke, all manner of teasing was gone from his voice. "You have ever been of such a generous nature, Ereinion, even as a child. Come rest in my chambers, then, for you know all that I have is also yours."

But still the raven-haired Elf hesitated. "I do not wish to intrude, Cirdan."

"You did not mind intruding all those years ago when you would wake me in the night after you'd had a nightmare or been frightened by a storm."

The Elven King rolled his grey eyes, incredulous and admittedly grateful that no one else was present to hear. "Cirdan, I was eleven years old then."

"It makes no difference, child. If I did not mind then, I surely would not object now. So come, before I sedate you myself. I have been tempted to do so many a time, though mainly because you would not stop frolicking around my home and following my every move like some lovesick puppy."

Gil-galad laughed aloud at that and finally surrendered. "Very well, Cirdan, I will come if you insist. Only wake me before dawn, won't you? I want to be back before the boy wakes, if at all possible."

"I will, if you wish it," the Telerin lord assured him as they made their way back indoors.

And the High King of the Elves nodded his gratitude, for this one favor but also for so much more. "Thank you, Cirdan."

* * *

Patroclus awoke late the following morning to a ray of sunlight shining across his face and to the familiar sound of the door being opened. He cracked his eyes open a bit but did not move. He saw Gil-galad enter the room, a long spear in hand and accompanied by a figure that must have been another Elf, although Patroclus did not remember Odysseus saying that any of the Elves had beards.

The Elf King and his companion spoke in hushed tones as they entered and walked over to the window once Gil-galad had returned his spear to its proper position along the wall. Patroclus lay still, straining his ears to hear better; but they were conversing in a language he could not comprehend, the same flowing tongue he had heard the night of his capture. But whether he could understand them or not, it made little difference; he was sure they were talking about him.

"Good morning, child."

Patroclus jumped, and his eyes shot open at the sound. He slowly pushed himself up from the bed with a painful grimace and turned to face the Elves.

Gil-galad smiled at him warmly. "I'm sorry, little one, I did not mean to startle you. I hope you slept well?"

The youth nodded – well enough. He had woken up once in the dead of night, confused briefly until he'd remembered where he was. Then he had been frightened upon finding himself alone, as he'd been prior to his torment. He had recalled Gil-galad's words that he would be leaving, presumably so that his prisoner could rest in peace; but the simple truth was that, in the unnerving stillness of the dark room, he had wished the Elf there with him again.

Gil-galad's bearded comrade spoke a few low words in the strange language Patroclus could not understand and moved to leave; but the King stopped him, laying a hand on his forearm, and the two Elves stepped forward.

"Patroclus," Gil-galad said with a nod toward his companion, "this is my good friend, Cirdan the Shipwright. Cirdan, this is Patroclus, son of Menoetius and cousin of Achilles."

"Well met, young one," Cirdan greeted him while Patroclus reciprocated by bowing his head.

"Cirdan was with you earlier this morning, had you been awake to see," Gil-galad went on, throwing his old mentor a glance that managed to be somehow disapproving yet appreciative at the same time. "He was supposed to wake me in a more timely fashion, but apparently the thought slipped his aging mind."

The shipwright chuckled beneath his silver beard. "The rest did you much good, Ereinion, for I could tell you were in need of it. And there was no cause for worry. I had everything under control."

"I'm sure, Cirdan, but nevertheless, I would have preferred to be here myself."

Cirdan feigned a hurt expression. "You give me no credit, Ereinion. You make it sound as though I had no talent with children whatsoever."

"I'm afraid you never were the best with them, old friend."

Patroclus sat back and observed their interaction in silence, amused at the exchange in spite of all that was passing through his own mind. It almost reminded him of the good-natured ribbing he had witnessed between his cousin and Odysseus. These two must also be long-time friends, indeed.

"I will leave you two, then," the venerable shipwright at last conceded, having no further retort, and after another quick whisper in his sovereign's ear, he departed.

When Cirdan had gone, Gil-galad's visage grew more somber, and he looked back down on his young captive.

"How do you feel this morning, child?"

Patroclus responded with apathetic shrug of his shoulders. "The same."

"Can I get you some food, then?" the Elven monarch offered.

But Patroclus only shook his head. He was hungry, of course, and probably needed the sustenance, yet he had little desire to eat. His stomach was in such turmoil that he simply didn't feel he would be able to hold anything down.

Gil-galad, on his part, could guess as much, but he decided not to force the issue just yet. Valar willing, Achilles would appear in a matter of hours to collect the boy, and Patrolcus would be more responsive to his cousin's care. In the meantime, he opted to transition into another topic.

"How badly does your head hurt you?" he inquired of the youth.

Patroclus offered another weak shrug, squirming a little under the scrutinizing gaze of the Elf standing over him. "It feels like a bad headache that won't go away no matter how much I sleep. Why?" he asked then, eyes narrowing slightly.

"Because a mild concussion is a sadly distinct possibility, depending on exactly how much damage you sustained," Gil-galad explained. He reached for the boy's head then and took it in his hands, pleased when there was no opposition.

"Tell me if your vision alters, Patroclus," he went on and began to gently apply pressure against the youth's skull.

And although Patroclus hissed in pain more than once throughout the procedure, there was nothing grave enough to verify his caregiver's concerns.

"I can still see fine," he said when Gil-galad was finished. "It just hurts."

"Very well," the raven-haired Elf acknowledged, nodding. "Only let me know at once if the pain worsens. Now, take off your shirt."

The boy immediately tensed at that, his eyes wandering uneasily up to his captor's face to silently question his intentions.

"I must see if any further harm was done yesterday during that…unwise escape attempt of yours. I wish also to check the status of your original injuries," Gil-galad quietly assured him.

Patroclus finally nodded his consent, though he knew there was truly little choice in the matter. He started to pull off the black garment, but his efforts were arrested by sharp, stabbing pains in his sides when he tried to raise his arms above his head. He doubled over involuntarily, arms instinctively wrapping around his throbbing torso as he struggled to breathe evenly. Never mind concussions, he was seeing yellow spots now. It hurt so badly!

He didn't have the energy or the fortitude for another attempt, but it was not necessary. Gil-galad removed the shirt himself, gingerly working the garment over the young Greek's head so he would not need to exert himself again. Patroclus offered no resistance, yet he still felt his cheeks flush slightly as his chest was bared. But more than anything else, he hated this inescapable feeling of utter helplessness.

Gil-galad sat on the bed beside the youth and carefully unwound the bandages that still bound his chest, gradually revealing the horrid mass of sickeningly colorful bruises underneath. Thankfully, it did not appear to be much more severe than before. The Elf very gently ran his fingers over the bruises, putting as much pressure as he dared against the boy's ribs to see if they were still intact.

He hated to do it, though, for every time he applied pressure, Patroclus would strangle back a gasp of pain. The boy looked unwaveringly straight ahead, his jaw clenched, and it was clearly taking everything he had to hold back tears. He was so young…

"How old are you, child?" Gil-galad spoke into the silence. Anything to help distract the boy from this agony.

The youth's gaze flickered back to his jailer's face uncertainly before turning away again.

"Seventeen," he answered softly.

"Seventeen?" the Elf echoed in near disbelief. "Patroclus, you are too young – far too young, even by mortal standards, to be involved in a war such as this. Why are you even here? Is the fact that Achilles is your cousin reason enough for him to drag a mere child with him into war?"

"No, it's nothing like that," Patroclus at once protested in his cousin's defense. He sighed and hung his head, still flinching as Gil-galad continued to minister his treatments.

"Achilles is my guardian," he continued quietly, yet he knew his companion was listening intently. "My parents both drowned in a shipwreck when I was ten, and I was sent to live with Achilles, my cousin whom I'd heard so much about but never met. He's taken care of me for seven years now, taught me how to fight. When he and the Myrmidons sailed for Troy, I went with them. But he still won't let me fight."

"Why not?" Gil-galad questioned as he at last finished his inspection with satisfaction and began to rewrap the youth's chest.

Patroclus frowned as he considered that. "I used to think it was just because he didn't believe I was ready, or that I was too young. But over the past couple of days, I've wondered if maybe he doesn't want me to live the same life he does – always killing, with nothing to live for but war and glory. He has nothing else."

"Nothing except you," the Elf King broke in, tying off the last of the fresh bandages. "Perhaps that is why he will not allow you to fight."

The boy's brow furrowed. "Perhaps. But he would never admit to it."

Gil-galad let the conversation dwindle at that and helped the boy back into his shirt.

"That is a beautiful necklace," he commented all of a sudden, still searching for topics of consideration that might offer his captive some small diversion. "You dwell by the Sea?"

Patroclus glanced down, noticing for the first time that the seashell necklace Achilles had given him was still around his neck, miraculously intact after the events of the past two days.

"Yes," he replied with a solemn nod, "Achilles' home is right on the shoreline." The youth reached up to absently caress the precious object. "His mother often makes necklaces like these. Achilles gave me this one just before we left for Troy."

He fell silent then, distracted by memories, and Gil-galad couldn't blame him. But he did not want the boy to just sit here all day, with naught but his own melancholy thoughts for company. Perhaps it was time for this Elf to take the discussion into his own hands.

"Patroclus," he began slowly, turning to the boy beside him to make sure he had regained the youth's attention. "I'm sure it may come as somewhat of a surprise to you, but your past and mine are not entirely dissimilar."

Patroclus looked back up at him, visibly puzzled, yet equally intrigued. "What do you mean?"

Gil-galad smiled at the open invitation, and the High King of the Elves began his tale.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary: **Achilles' heel is not his only weakness. An AU crossover between Troy and Second Age Middle Earth. Focal characters include Patroclus, Achilles, and Gil-galad, along with many others from both stories.

**Disclaimer: **I own nothing from Troy or the _Iliad, _and credit for anything related to Middle Earth belongs to Tolkien alone. Most of the details in this chapter concerning Elven culture were taken from the book _Morgoth's Ring._

**Author's Note:** I'm very excited about this chapter! It is the Chapter of Parallels, and I've been looking forward to writing it ever since I started this fic. My deepest thanks, as usual, to the faithful trio of **Tori, Brandi, **and **Whilom**! But I think **Whilom**deserves special mention for her epic struggle of waving her laptop madly around in search of a wireless signal while on vacation, lol! I'm so glad we can still hear from you, hon, so thanks a bunch, and have fun with your family! And now for the chapter. I hope you all find this as terribly fascinating as I do! Enjoy, and I'll ttyl!

**Chapter 14**

And so the High King of the Elves began his tale.

"I, too, was separated from my parents at an early age – the very same age as you, to be exact." Gil-galad looked away then, and it seemed to Patrolcus that his companion was suddenly lost in thought, captive to memories long buried within the darkest recesses of his ageless mind.

"When I was ten years old, there was a great battle that marked the beginning of the end for our people in that ancient war." The King paused again, his eyes distant, and when he resumed, there was a definite trace of sorrow in his low voice.

"My grandfather fell in that battle. It was a long time before anyone actually told me he was dead; but after he rode away, he never came back. And when I saw my parents' sorrow, I knew that he never would. After his death, my father assumed the High Kingship; but my homeland, once a great fortress of refuge, had become a forefront of war. And so for my own safety, I was sent away to dwell with an Elf whom I had never met and of whom I knew very little."

"Just like that?" Patroclus interrupted, appalled, before he could think better of it and restrain his outburst. "Didn't you have any say in it?"

"None whatsoever," Gil-galad replied, the slightest hint of regret pervading his voice. "But I do remember wanting so desperately to remain with my parents."

"What do you think would have happened had you stayed with them?" the young Greek pressed him.

Gil-galad laughed suddenly, and all sense of remorse had vanished when he answered, "There is no doubt what would have happened, little one. My homeland was overrun a mere sixteen years later, and I would surely have been slain, just as they were."

The Elf King was silent then, and Patrolcus wrestled with his own curiosity. He longed to put the nagging question into words but feared pushing the great warrior beside him too far.

"Did you…" he began awkwardly, his youthful curiosity winning out at last. "I mean, during those sixteen years – did you ever see your parents?"

When his companion remained silent, the boy immediately winced, wishing fervently that he had kept his mouth shut, and he braced himself for the potentially fierce reprimand that was sure to follow. But it never came. Instead, one lone tear escaped from the star-like eyes that now shone with moisture, and Gil-galad's answer came softly.

"No," he whispered, almost to himself so that Patroclus could scarcely hear him. "I never saw them again."

Patroclus nervously pursed his lips, all too familiar himself with the grief of lost loved ones. He tried to move past the subject.

"And the Elf you were sent to stay with – what happened with him?"

A grin returned to Gil-galad's features, the question seeming to draw him back to pleasanter times. "After a somewhat…tumultuous beginning, he and I actually grew very close over the years."

"Who was he?"

The Elf's smile now returned in full force. "Cirdan the Shipwright."

"Cirdan?" Patroclus echoed in surprise. "The Elf I just met?"

"The very same," Gil-galad replied, laughing. "When I said he was not the best with children, I spoke from personal experience. He does look rather surly, does he not?"

The youth nodded and found himself grinning in turn. "Were you frightened of him at first?" he asked, recalling his own first intimidating encounters with Achilles.

"Terrified," the Elven King admitted freely. "And though today I love that grumpy old shipwright tremendously, as I mentioned earlier, our relationship did not have the best of beginnings. He took no immediate liking to me, nor did I care much for him."

"I'm sure you missed your parents," Patroclus interjected softly, his face somber. "That was all I could think about for days, even though Achilles was always very kind to me."

"Yea, I did want badly to return home. I must have tried to run away at least twice during that first week. You must understand, Patroclus, that Cirdan has ever been a bachelor like myself, possessing very little experience with children and even less patience for them. Many years previously, he had sworn his friendship to my father, offering refuge in the Havens for any of his kin should the need arise. But I know he never expected to have a small and most disagreeable Elfling thrust under his care. Needless to say, the situation was far from ideal for both of us."

"Yet he grew fond of you?"

"And I of him," Gil-galad confirmed with a deliberate nod. "It was not terribly long before I had resigned myself to life in the Havens; though you are correct that I always missed my parents dearly. I had so little time with them, and there will always be things I can never fully remember. In many ways, Cirdan has been the only father I've truly known, despite his own reluctance to admit it."

He turned his head to fix the boy's gaze in his own. "So you see, child, you and I are not so different after all."

Patroclus nodded slowly. "Thank you for telling me all this," he said, and he meant it. Not only was the conversation a distraction from his severe physical and emotional discomfort, it had brought him a new level of ease in the Elf King's mighty presence. No longer was he an unapproachable despot or an invincible warrior, but a mere child like Patroclus himself who longed for his parents yet made the best with what he had been given, knowing that there was simply no other alternative.

"But I'm guessing you've known Cirdan a lot longer than I have Achilles," the young Greek went on. "If you were ten years old when you first met him, and now…" he paused, wondering if it would be appropriate to voice the question, but decided it couldn't hurt. "How old are you now?"

Gil-galad smiled at the boy's childlike inquisitiveness. It was refreshing and almost reminded the High King of himself long ago. "I am one thousand, six hundred and forty-one years old."

Patroclus' eyes went wide, and the Elf laughed again.

"Do not look so surprised, young one. By the reckoning of many Elves, I am still quite young myself. Take Cirdan, for example."

"How old is he?" Patroclus questioned, fascination lighting up his blue eyes as he eagerly leaned forward.

"I do not really know for certain," Gil-galad confessed, leaning forward himself as if to share some dark secret. "And I'm not sure anyone truly does, save Cirdan himself. But he remains, to my knowledge, the oldest Elf in all of Middle Earth. He was here before the exile of the Noldor and the War of the Great Jewels – long before my father and even my grandfather as well. He must be at least five or six thousand years old by now."

The youth let out a long, low whistle, a little trick Eudorus had taught him several years back.

"That almost makes Achilles seem kind of foolish," he muttered to himself, but Gil-galad heard him clearly.

"What do you mean, child?"

"I was just thinking about how Achilles' lifelong ambition, his sole motive for fighting in this war, is to have his name remembered for a thousand years. But listening to you now, it almost makes it sound as though a thousand years isn't…" He trailed off, at a loss for the right words.

"Isn't all that long?" the Elf suggested, to which Patroclus only nodded. "And you would be correct – it really is not. For the time passes far more quickly than even we immortals care to acknowledge."

"How old were you when you became King?" the boy asked next, somewhat hesitantly. "After your father…?"

Gil-galad shook his head. "No, not then. Thankfully, my uncle survived the battle in which my father was killed, and he took up the Kingship until his own death about forty years later. By then, the Havens also had fallen, and Cirdan and I had escaped with what survivors we could to the nearby Isle of Balar, where we remained until the end of the First Age. So to answer your question, child, I was sixty-four years old when I became the High King of my people. And I'm sure that sounds quite sensible in your reasoning, but would you allow me a moment to put it into perspective?"

The boy nodded again, encouraging him to continue.

"In the Elven cultures," he elaborated, "you do not reach full maturity, or what we call your 'majority,' until age fifty. And even then, you may not carry the proper respect of a grown adult until your hundredth birthday, or 'centennial.' So by the account of my own people, their new King was barely out of his childhood. It would be the same, Patroclus, as an older, experienced ruler like Agamemnon dying in battle, and a child like you being the only one eligible to succeed him." The Elf paused. "I am only glad Cirdan was there to advise me. Without his wisdom and guidance, I do not know where I would be now."

"Why does he call you 'Ereinion'?" Patroclus inquired suddenly, voicing aloud the question that had been puzzling him ever since the shipwright's departure.

Gil-galad turned to look at his young captive in wonder, not a little impressed that the boy had caught on to that small detail so quickly.

"Ereinion is my name by birth," he explained. "In our society, it is not uncommon for an Elf to acquire a surname, a sort of formal nickname by which he eventually becomes well-known, even to the point that his true name grows obsolete. Such is the case with me. I am Ereinion, but history shall remember me as Gil-galad. Yet not Cirdan evidently, for it would seem he is independent from the rest of history."

Patroclus grinned at that, feeling glad and even privileged to have been allowed this glimpse into the Elf King's past. It had certainly provided a new understanding and perspective of his immortal captor.

"But more than anything," Gil-galad went on, "I think Cirdan remembers me as the scared yet defiant little Elfling that I was when I first came to him. And I do not mean to say that he still treats me like a child, although in some ways it might seem so. I only mean that he knows me the very best of anyone in this world, and he will always know me simply as Ereinion."

He then looked pointedly at the youth beside him. "And if your cousin cares for you as Cirdan cared for me, which I've no doubt he does, then he will come for you ere long, child. You will see."

Patroclus gratefully nodded his acknowledgment of those words, but it was nevertheless disquieting to know that the second day of the allocated ransom time was now halfway past, and still they had heard nothing from Achilles.

There was a soft knock on the door then, and who should enter but the venerable shipwright himself.

"Ereinion," he called, completely oblivious to the amused glance Gil-galad shared with Patroclus upon his entrance, a mischievous twinkle in the King's grey eye.

"What news, my dear grumpy old shipwright?"

Cirdan balked, clearly taken aback, but he soon recovered and retaliated by playfully swatting his former charge on the side of the head.

"You know when I am truly 'grumpy,' Ereinion, and I daresay you know better than to prompt me in that direction," he cautioned.

But Gil-galad only burst into laughter, not daunted in the least. "Indeed, Cirdan, I can hardly argue against that. But in all seriousness, my friend, what do you require?"

"Nothing for myself," Cirdan informed him, "but King Priam has requested a status update as far as Achilles and his cousin are concerned."

Beside him, Gil-galad could feel Patroclus tense at the mention of his cousin, and he laid a steady hand on the boy's shoulder, giving it a quick, comforting squeeze as he rose from the bed.

"Do not worry, child," he assured the newly distressed youth. "All will be well. Only remain here; I will return later today."

Patroclus mutely nodded his confirmation, and Gil-galad left the room with Cirdan at his heels. All in all, the High King deemed it had been a profitable morning; but this afternoon was apt to be an entirely different story. His only regret about going before Priam now to discuss the Myrmidon lord was that there was absolutely nothing to report.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary: **Achilles' heel is not his only weakness. An AU crossover between Troy and Second Age Middle Earth. Focal characters include Patroclus, Achilles, and Gil-galad, along with many others from both stories.

**Disclaimer: **I'm running out of cute little ways to say it, but trust me, I still own nothing from either Troy or Middle Earth.

**Author's Note:** Hey everyone! Here I was worried it would be forever before I got this up, but once I started writing, I actually finished the chapter in only two days. Works for me! At least I know I've evaded the Crowbar O' Doom yet again, lol. And on that note, cheers to my Faithful Foursome: **Brandi, Whilom, Tori**, and **lozvamp** for all your support and inspiring reviews! Special thanks to **Tori** for all her fabulous ideas helping me along with this fic, both from last night and from Saturday when I also scarred you and permanently changed the way you hold your pencil! Thanks so much my long-lost twin, it was a blast! So enjoy the chapter, you guys, and I'll ttyl!

**Chapter 15**

Gil-galad sighed, impatiently passing a hand over his face as he strode back to his chambers late that afternoon. The Trojan council had not been pleased with his account of the situation, but what was to be done? If Achilles chose to remain silent, they could not make him speak. Gil-galad only hoped the famed warrior had been delayed by some unforeseeable obstacle, but he retained his full confidence that the greatest of Greeks would come for his beloved cousin before the three days drew to a close.

Reaching his chambers, he knocked softly on the door to announce his arrival and silently stepped inside.

Still sitting in the same place on the bed as when Gil-galad had left him, Patroclus looked up as his jailer entered, yet his face betrayed no fear.

"No news?" he asked quietly.

"Nothing," the Elf confessed with a shake of his dark head. "We have yet to hear from your cousin, though I would not trouble yourself over it just yet. I'm sure there is an explanation for his delay. He will come."

Patroclus nodded, a reflexive response now, but he let the topic drop. When they heard from Achilles, he would be told of it. _If _they heard from Achilles… He winced internally, his stomach turning at the thought, and he swallowed around bitter taste of bile that suddenly rose up in his mouth.

"Can I get you anything, child?"

The youth's eyes darted back to his captor, but he shook his head. He wanted nothing now. Nothing except Achilles. Nothing except to see the love in his cousin's eyes, to hear the familiar concern in his voice, and to feel the strength of his arms in an embrace.

Gil-galad frowned deeply at the boy's lethargy but chose not to press the matter. Not yet.

"Are they as difficult to fight with as Odysseus says? Your spears, I mean."

The soft voice broke into his reflections, and Gil-galad's attention was brought back to the boy, who he noticed for the first time was staring with intent fascination at Aiglos, which still leant against the wall directly across from him. Who knew how long the child had been sitting there, simply studying the great spear?

"Yes, they are extremely difficult to wield," the Elven King answered, walking over to his spear and lifting the formidable weapon in his hands. "It has taken me centuries to master this weapon, and I continue to find aspects of my fighting style that require improvement."

"Who taught you?" Patroclus questioned as he rose and haltingly drew closer to the Elf, still clearly admiring the spear.

"Cirdan taught me most of what I know, although he'll be the first to admit I have surpassed him in spear-work."

"I hope I can pass Achilles someday," the boy commented wistfully, "but I doubt it will ever happen."

"It may, young one. It may." Gil-galad held out Aiglos then, motioning for his young captive to take it.

Patroclus accepted the tall weapon, disbelieving, and gazed up at the curved blade in wonder.

"Were you in better health, I would let you take a few passes with it," the immortal warrior continued, grinning when he saw the boy's eyes widen.

"Really?" Patroclus exclaimed, his expression bearing a mixture of surprise and ill-concealed excitement. "You…would trust me?"

"I trust it with you now, do I not?" the pleasantly amused monarch reasoned. "And believe me, child, you are far more likely to cut off your own leg with this than you are mine. In which case, perhaps I shouldn't be letting you handle it. After all, I did promise to return you to your cousin in one piece."

But his tone was one of gentle fun, and the Elf made no move to reclaim his weapon.

"Don't worry, I won't try anything fancy," the boy assured him with a genuine smile as he ran his hand up and down Aiglos' shaft. Then he frowned again, puzzled.

"Is it true that you don't throw them?" he asked, understanding now that he held the spear how such an act would be all but impossible.

And Gil-galad confirmed his perception. "No, they are not meant be thrown, unless you are truly in dire straights. This weapon is never to leave your hands. If it does, you may consider your life ended, for wielding a spear in battle requires full commitment. As you can see for yourself, it must be a two-handed weapon. You cannot be burdened with a shield, and I choose to no longer carry a sword with me, either. Only a dagger."

"It's a beautiful weapon," Patroclus mused, regarding the fine details of the smooth wooden shaft and the intricate lettering along the blade. "Does it have a name?"

"Yes. Its name is Aiglos, meaning 'snow-thorn' or 'icicle' by a looser translation. I have had it only a few months now, and though it differs slightly from the ones I am more accustomed to, I am exceedingly pleased with its performance thus far. I have no doubt Aiglos shall serve me well for many years to come."

"It's surprisingly light for its size," the young Greek noted, very much impressed, and returned the elegant spear to its owner. He watched Gil-galad set the weapon back against the wall, lowering his eyes when the Elf turned to face him again.

"Thank you," he said quietly, his voice little more than an abashed whisper.

"For what?" his bemused companion inquired. "For letting you hold my spear?"

"No – well, for that too, yes," the boy stammered awkwardly. "But what I meant was – thank you for doing it this way."

"Doing what?"

"You're trying to get Achilles out of the war, aren't you?"

Gil-galad nodded.

"So, thank you for doing it like this." Patroclus moistened his lips nervously, still avoiding his captor's eyes. "You could have challenged him to fight you in single combat, and he would have come. He's never backed down from a challenge in all the years I've known him. But then you would have had to kill him, because it's the only way you could have won." He finally met the Elf's piercing gaze. "Thank you for not hurting him. I don't know what I would do if I lost him, too."

"I have little desire to take life without reason, Patroclus" the King gravely told him. "But you sound quite confident that I would beat him. The popular rumor here in Troy is that your cousin is all but invincible."

The boy's brow furrowed as he considered this.

"I don't know," he confessed. "If the two of you were to fight, I really don't know who would win." His eyes wandered uneasily back to Aiglos. "But I don't think I really want to find out, either."

* * *

Night had fallen when Gil-galad next returned to his chambers, and another day had passed with no word from Achilles. He had not yet given up hope on the Myrmidon commander, but when they did hear from him, the High King had every intention of demanding a very detailed explanation as to why his response had been so painstakingly delayed.

He disliked leaving the boy alone for hours at a time, but neither could he hover over the child's every movement like a worried mother. Patroclus still had not taken any food, but he should be resting now, which was surely the most preferable option at the present time. But when he came to the door of his chambers, the regal Elf was aware of muffled noises coming from within, along with the distinct and sadly reminiscent sound of pained, fearful cries.

Fearing a repeat of past events, Gil-galad rushed into the room, his hand already reaching for Aiglos as he entered. But there was no one. No one except the young Greek on the bed who tossed and turned restlessly in his sleep, crying out incoherently as his own mind tormented him. Nightmares.

Gil-galad sighed, moving over to sit on edge of the bed next to the boy, and saw in the moonlight that his face was glazed over with a sheen of sweat.

"Patroclus?" the Elf called, laying a hand on the youth's shoulder. The boy sought unconsciously to pull away, no doubt confusing his caretaker with the horrors of his dreams, but Gil-galad only tightened his grip.

"Patroclus," he tried again, shaking the youth as vigorously as he dared. "Patroclus, wake up! It is only a dream – wake up, child!"

The boy's eyes snapped open as he jerked himself awake with a strangled cry and immediately tried to lunge out of his captor's grasp, but Gil-galad held him firmly.

"Shh, easy, Patroclus," he soothed in a low voice. "It's all right. You were only dreaming. It's over now, child."

Patroclus ceased his struggles but still lay there trembling beneath the Elf's strong hand, shivering both from the cold sweat that now drenched him and from the lingering terror of his nightmares. Lying on his stomach, he could feel his heart pounding against the mattress under him, and he struggled to calm his rapid breathing.

He felt strangely comforted by the King's close proximity and by the unyielding hand on his shoulder, but he was unable to suppress the shame that slowly crept over him in the moments of silence that followed while his mind quieted. How old was he now, that he needed to be consoled over a nightmare?

Gil-galad, meanwhile, had moved his hand to cover the back of the boy's neck, gently massaging to alleviate the tension in those weary muscles.

"It's all right, little one," the Elf reassured him. "It's all right."

Patroclus squeezed his eyes shut and nodded, still clinging desperately to the corners of the pillow beneath his head.

"The Trojans?" Gil-galad asked quietly.

Another brief nod responded.

"You needn't fear them any longer, Patroclus. I swear they will not harm you again as long as I am here."

The youth wordlessly nodded once more. He knew his protector was correct, but it made the haunting memories no less terrifying.

"Why now?" he whispered into the pillow. "Why not before?"

"You were probably too tired before," the Elven King gently explained. "Now your mind has regained sufficient energy to remember and to dream."

Patroclus shuddered under his captor's hand, and Gil-galad moved the blankets up closer around his chin.

"Go back to sleep now, child," he coaxed. "Sleep."

The boy closed his eyes though his heart still raced, and Gil-galad turned to leave him in peace. But before he could reach the door, he was stopped by a timid voice behind him.

"Wait," Patroclus called after the Elf, pushing himself up off the bed. "Please don't go." The youth flushed. He hated this notion of acting so childish, but he knew he would never be able to sleep alone that night. The dreams had been too vivid, and he could not confront them again on his own. Not tonight.

Gil-galad moved back into the room. "Very well, little one. I will stay if you wish it."

"Thank you," Patroclus whispered his gratitude as he lay back down.

Gil-galad then came over and readjusted the blankets over the youth's slender shoulders before retrieving Aiglos and sitting down in a chair opposite the boy. He picked up a small whetstone from the floor and began to slowly run it along the curved blade of the spear, wiping away the minuscule dust particles with a cloth after each pass.

Patroclus closed his eyes, more grateful than Gil-galad would ever know. The Elf King could not have picked a better way to pass the time, for there had been countless nights when the young Myrmidon had fallen asleep to the sound of Achilles sharpening his own sword. The soft, steady stroking served a similar purpose now, and it wasn't long before Patroclus drifted back to the invisible world of sleep.


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary: **Achilles' heel is not his only weakness. An AU crossover between Troy and Second Age Middle Earth. Focal characters include Patroclus, Achilles, and Gil-galad, along with many others from both stories.

**Disclaimer: **I own absolutely no part of the sheer genius that is Homer or the brilliance that is Tolkien.

**Author's Note: **Well, well, well. What can I say? This was done, and I saw no reason to wait. Happy Weekend, everybody! Many thanks to **Tori **and **Whilom** for their outstanding reviews which continue to make my day without fail! A very special dedication on this chapter to **Tori**, for her unbelievable help and support of this fic, and also in hopes that this update might be a little ray of sunshine in what I'm sure hasn't been the greatest of days. And **Whilom**, I hope all went well in getting a hold of that picture! Sorry if my PM got a bit long and confusing, but I know how you love them, lol! So enjoy the chapter, and I'll talk to you all later!

**Chapter 16**

When he opened his eyes to a soft ray of sunshine the next morning, Patroclus was mildly surprised and immensely relieved to see that Gil-galad was still with him. True to his word, the Elf King had not left his bedside.

The boy rubbed his tired eyes. "Thank you," he meekly expressed his gratitude once more, to which his guardian responded with a nod and a warm smile.

"You are very welcome. You slept soundly from then on."

Patroclus felt himself flush again at the thought of how juvenile he must have appeared last night, and he tried to mask the rising color in his cheeks by sitting up and swinging his legs over the side of the bed. He moved slowly, his actions still hindered by a dull and throbbing pain, but he felt there had been noticeable improvement over the past two days.

He leaned over and closed his eyes, resting his head in his hands until the worst of the pain had receded. When he looked up next, he saw that Gil-galad had risen from his own seat and now stood over his young prisoner.

"Here," the Elf said, holding out what looked like nothing more than a small chunk of bread. "Eat this."

But Patroclus only shook his head, disinterested. "No, thank you. I'm not hungry."

"I know you have little desire to eat, young one, but it cannot continue like this. You are thin enough as it is, and I have no intention of returning you to your cousin half-starved."

The youth reluctantly took the food, noting with due appreciation how unvarying Gil-galad was in his conviction that Achilles would be coming for him. But the simple fact that his cousin had waited until the last day to do so was disheartening enough for Patroclus.

"What is this?" he asked indifferently, turning the bread over in his fingers.

"It is a type of Elvish waybread which we call _lembas_. I know it may not look like much, but a piece this size will sustain you for the rest of the day. Now, eat."

Patroclus grudgingly complied, taking a small bite of the _lembas_. It was a very dense bread, yet pleasantly sweet to the taste. He should not have had any real objection to eating it, but there was a hard lump in his throat that made swallowing most unpleasant. Perhaps he would save the rest for a bit later.

Gil-galad, meanwhile, had moved past him and was now standing by the window, staring out toward the Sea, apparently absorbed in his own thoughts.

"How many Myrmidons are there?" the Elf King questioned abruptly, his gaze still directed out the window.

"We came here with fifty men," Patroclus replied, then frowned, remembering. "But after the battle to take the beach, our numbers dropped to about thirty."

"Only enough for one ship," the immortal monarch mused. "So there is no way he could have left at the time you previously mentioned without observing your absence?"

"No," the boy answered softly, blue eyes dropping dejectedly to the floor. "He would have noticed if I wasn't there."

Gil-galad nodded and sighed deeply. "Then I suppose there is nothing to do but wait."

Patroclus swallowed thickly, his appetite vanishing completely, for this was the closest thing to doubt he had yet heard from his captor. What if Achilles didn't come for him? But no, surely he would – wouldn't he? Was there any reason why he would not?

His stomach churned angrily, and Patroclus suddenly felt sick. Of course – the argument. The last contact he'd had with his cousin had been their vehement argument, more fierce than any disagreement they had yet encountered in their years together. Was it possible that Achilles was waiting until the last moment to claim him as some twisted method of teaching him proper respect? Could that argument have been sufficient to make the older warrior not want to come for him at all? Oh gods, he truly was going to be sick…

"Patroclus?" a concerned voice broke into his downward spiral toward despair. "What is wrong, child?"

Gil-galad was coming back over to him now, with worry etched across his ageless face.

The young Greek drew a quivering breath. "That night," he began shakily, still not lifting his eyes from the floor, "the night you…found me. Achilles and I had fought just before then. That's why I was off by myself."

"You fought?" his companion questioned, appearing somewhat troubled by the disclosure.

"It was…just an argument," the boy clarified, "so I suppose we didn't 'fight' in the true sense, but it was bad enough. Achilles was very upset…" He trailed off then, unwilling and unable to relive that dismal night. He had tried not to think about it, despite hours alone with his little except his own thoughts for company; but the issue had to be confronted now that it might have such drastic repercussions. In fact, he probably should have told his captor about it much sooner.

For his part, the High King could sense his young captive's reluctance to divulge the finer details of this sensitive topic, and he opted not to demand that all be revealed. But this revelation was still disturbing, to say the least. Clearly, the boy considered a mere argument reason enough for his cousin to neglect him; and not only to neglect him, but to abandon him to an uncertain fate at the hands of his enemies.

"This must have been some debate," he suggested pensively, to which the youth only nodded. "But surely you do not believe Achilles would leave you here simply because the two of you had a disagreement?"

"I don't know," Patroclus whispered, and there was no denying the fear that had subtly crept into his voice. "I don't think so, but I…I don't know."

Gil-galad was lost in his reflections for a silent moment, his brow furrowed. "Wait here," he commanded suddenly. "I will be back later."

With that, the Elven monarch turned and strode from the room with a swish of his navy cloak, the child's wide and anxious blue eyes following him out the door.

* * *

"Cirdan?"

His quick rap on the door of the nearby chamber was swiftly answered, and the Shipwright of the Elves appeared in person to usher his King inside.

"You are troubled, Ereinion," he observed after one look at his former charge's face. "What is wrong?"

"Cirdan," the younger Elf commenced, pacing restlessly back and forth across the blessedly spacious room. "After I had dwelt in the Havens for seven years, could anything have happened that might have persuaded you to reject me from then on? Any sort of disagreement we might have had that would have caused you to send me out of your care?"

Cirdan's bushy eyebrows rose in evident surprise, and there was a deliberate pause before the venerable shipwright responded.

"Ereinion, after being in your company for seven minutes, I questioned your father's wisdom in sending such a young and impressionable child into my keeping. After seven hours, I freely admit that I was ready and willing to hand you off to the first couple in the Havens that would take you. But after seven days, child – after seven days, not even Morgoth himself could have separated you from me. And do you truly believe my sentiments in that regard would have changed after seven more years?"

Gil-galad stopped his pacing and gratefully looked back at his mentor, unashamed of the gentle tears he felt involuntarily welling in his grey eyes at those words.

"No," he conceded with a defeated sigh. "I know nothing has changed – from then even until today."

"Aye, young one, and well you should know it. But why have you come to me with such questions now?"

The Noldorin Elf resumed his pacing then, frustration bleeding through his every movement.

"Patroclus has just told me that he and Achilles were engaged in a rather…heated discussion only hours before I captured him."

"And now he believes Achilles will desert him here because of this…disagreement?"

Gil-galad nodded. "He would not say so directly, but I know he fears it."

"You say he has been in Achilles' care for seven years?"

"Yes. But if Achilles is the kind of fool who would condemn his own cousin over the bitter feelings of one argument, then perhaps it is best for the boy to learn of his alleged guardian's true nature sooner rather than later." The King's voice had risen now, anger flashing unmistakably in his bright eyes.

"Perhaps," Cirdan complied from his place of contentment in a nearby chair, then abruptly exclaimed, "Would you stop pacing like that, child? You are making me dizzier than a green sailor during the worst of the winter gales!"

Gil-galad came to a halt, but the impatience in his voice was still evident. "I'm sorry, Cirdan."

"There is no need for an apology, Ereinion. But what are you going to do?"

"With Patroclus? I do not know." The raven-haired Elf sighed, sounding almost helpless as he continued. "I had complete faith that Achilles would come for him; and he may still, for it is only noon."

"But if he does not? Do you still intend to leave on the morrow?"

"Yes, we must return to Lindon as soon as possible, for I fear time may be against us. But for what purpose, I still cannot say."

"And what of the boy then?" Cirdan pressed, far more willing to confront that increasingly probable scenario than his younger sovereign. "You cannot simply give him back on our way out tomorrow if Achilles does not respond, for I can see that you are tempted to do so."

Gil-galad grunted softly. "You know me too well, old friend, for indeed, I am sorely tempted. But I know you are correct, and I cannot return him freely. I _will_ not," he added hastily upon seeing the shipwright's skeptical countenance.

"Very well then," Cirdan said, getting to his feet. "I will relay your orders to the troops concerning our departure. They will be ready at dawn tomorrow."

The King nodded. "Thank you, Cirdan. Now I must speak with Priam and tell him my plans remain unchanged."

* * *

Standing in the Trojan throne room a short while later, Ereinion Gil-galad knew full well what had to be done, but he was nonetheless relieved when Priam, an aged king in his own right, understood.

"I shall dearly miss your company and your counsel, my friend," the Trojan monarch told him with a sad smile. "But all the same, it has been a tremendous honor to host you within my walls, and an even greater joy to know that the ancient alliances are far from dead."

"Indeed," the noble Elf concurred. "I hope the friendship between our two kindreds will endure for many centuries to come. And while I do regret leaving you and your fair city in the hour of greatest need, I am afraid my presence is all too greatly required elsewhere."

"I understand, friend Gil-galad," King Priam reassured his ally. "Your first duty must be to your own lands, beyond any doubt. I do not know what so urgently calls you home, but I pray you will overcome it quickly and with little loss."

Gil-galad gave a small smile at the elderly mortal's concern; yet he knew as one who saw with immortal eyes that the pending conflict would be anything but quick, and the losses far from a mere few.

However, he still managed to say, "I thank you, good Priam, for your blessing, as well as for your empathy in this matter. I wish you both the necessary courage and wisdom to persevere in your own troubles."

With a gracious inclination of his dark head, the Elf King then turned to depart; but just as he reached the doorway on the far side of the throne room, he was brought to a halt by the sound of Priam's voice calling after him.

"It is now the third day, my friend. Has there been no word from Achilles?"

The High King of the Elves sighed and closed his eyes a moment, running his hand absently along the dark, polished wood of the imposing doorframe beside him.

"No," he answered quietly. "Nothing."


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary: **Achilles' heel is not his only weakness. An AU crossover between Troy and Second Age Middle Earth. Focal characters include Patroclus, Achilles, and Gil-galad, along with many others from both stories.

**Disclaimer: **Everything belongs to the grand Tolkien estate and to that elusive historical figure, Homer.

**Author's Note: **Alright, we've finally made it to this major chapter. Yay! Thanks everyone for sticking with me through this, it means the world to me! And special thanks to **Whilom, Tori, **and **Vanilla Cookie** for their inspiring reviews on the last chapter! **Brandi** seems to have pulled another one of her legendary vanishing acts, but I'm sure she'll come back to us all when time and chance allow. Miss you like crazy, girl, hope all is well! Ok then, please enjoy this chapter, and I'll ttyl!

**Chapter 17**

After his conversation with Priam, Gil-galad oversaw some of his soldiers' preparations for their departure the following morning. His surveillance was not really necessary; what _was_ necessary was some sort of mental stimulation, anything to keep him occupied as the minutes and hours slowly ticked by without any word from the famed Myrmidon commander.

Yet he knew that Patroclus, unfortunately, had no such opportunity for distraction, and that the boy's lost, confused thoughts must be driving him near mad by now. He was loath to return with no tidings for the child, but to leave him alone and uninformed seemed an even crueler prospect.

So the King went back to his chambers in the early hours of the evening, not quite certain what to expect from the young boy he had claimed as his prisoner, for better or for worse. He entered the room to find Patroclus seated on the floor near the window across the room, his back against the wall as he hugged his knees up to his chest. He did not look up when his jailer entered.

"It's because I'm weak," the boy said, so softly it was almost to himself. "Isn't it?"

The Elf slowed his approach then, caught entirely off guard by what he was hearing.

"What are you talking about, child?"

Patroclus let out a quaking sigh as he struggled to maintain his fragile composure. "I let myself be captured, and now Achilles won't come for me because he knows how weak I am…"

Gil-galad was down on his knees beside the child in an instant. "Look at me, Patroclus," he demanded. "Look at me!"

Unable to defy that tone of command, the distraught young Greek raised his blue eyes, bright with unshed tears, until they met the piercing grey of the Elf King's. But when Patroclus would not move his head to face his captor directly, Gil-galad gently took hold of his chin and turned his head until they were truly eye-to-eye. He wanted the boy's full attention for this.

"Patroclus," he began earnestly, "you cannot lay the fault of this on yourself. You are not weak! Believe me when I say that no man in the entire Greek army, except perhaps your cousin, could have evaded me that night. Please, do not blame yourself."

"But how can I blame Achilles?" the youth interrupted suddenly, his obvious distress unpleasant for even the High Elven King to long behold. "He would not have left me unless there was good reason for it."

"I can think of no such reason," Gil-galad argued back. "If blame must be laid, Patroclus, let it be on me. This has all been my doing from the beginning."

"But what did you do?" Patroclus retorted despairingly. "You never harmed me – you've protected me. All you did was ask Achilles that he leave in exchange for my safety, and he was planning to leave anyway."

Gil-galad finally broke their eye contact then, letting the youth turn his head dejectedly away once more. It truly pained him to see the boy in such a state; and while he shared Patroclus' disbelief that Achilles had not responded in any way, the Elf King's options were severely limited as far as what help he might have to offer. Although – there was perhaps one thing he could still do.

* * *

Wrapped once again in the dark cloak that concealed him within the black of night, Ereinion Gil-galad slipped along the city walls, rope in hand, to the place where he had descended twice before. This venture was a bit of a gamble on his part, he knew; but with good fortune, all might be amended ere the sun rose on his last day in Troy.

He secured his rope in the same position as previously, gave it a trying tug for good measure, and made his way to the edge of the wall. But when he looked back, he saw that the knot had come undone, and the rope now lay limply on the ground. Frowning, the Elven monarch went back and retied the knot, more than a tad unsettled by the event. He hadn't had difficulty tying a secure knot since Cirdan had first taught him when he was twelve.

He walked once more to the far side of wall, prepared to climb down like before, but he now made it a point to look back at the rope's status before descending. And Gil-galad froze. Once again, the knot had come loose. The cloaked Elf glared daggers down at the malfeasant rope on the ground in front of him, but it only lay there unperturbed, looking almost innocent as it curved gracefully along the cold stonework.

Gil-galad shook his head as though to rouse himself from this silent confrontation with an inanimate object and strode determinedly over to the end of the rope, grabbing it up with a vengeance as he went. This was such a simple, yet usually reliable knot, there was no way he could have tied it incorrectly twice in a row. So he set about the task once again, but before he could even make his first loop in the rope, he was startled by an all too familiar voice behind him.

"Do not bother, Ereinion. It will never stay."

"Cirdan!" Gil-galad exclaimed, whirling around to face the silver-bearded shipwright who sat happily concealed in the near shadows. "Have you been sitting here all this time? What are you doing?"

"Waiting for you, of course," his elder replied with a definite trace of amusement in his gruff voice.

"Waiting for me? You knew I was going to do this?"

Cirdan shrugged. "I suspected as much, young one."

"And so you've taken it upon yourself to stop me, then, is that correct?"

A curt nod provided sufficient answer.

Gil-galad grunted. "At least now I know that I have not completely lost my skill with a rope," he commented wryly, to which Cirdan only smiled beneath the whiskers of his beard.

"Indeed. But I cannot let you go, Ereinion. Not this time."

"Nothing will happen, Cirdan," the younger Elf impatiently assured his old guardian while turning back to look out toward the Greek ships. "I promise I will be careful."

"Careful?" the shipwright echoed brusquely. "You would call sneaking off into the enemy camp whilst holding a hostage of your own 'careful'?"

"I wish only to listen and observe as I did the first time – to discover any valid reason why Achilles has deserted his cousin here."

Cirdan's silvery brows drew together in a frown, and his eyes grew hard. "You never have been able to lie to me, Ereinion, and I do not recommend you begin making a habit of it now."

The raven-haired Elf sighed, defeated, and his proud shoulders slumped a bit in resignation. "Very well. I meant to speak with Achilles himself to obtain my answers."

"In that case, I am very glad to have stopped you."

There was an edge of warning in his mentor's tone now, and Gil-galad knew from experience to remain quiet until the other had finished.

"Ereinion, do you truly expect him to just let you go after you've paid this 'social visit'?"

"He will with the knowledge that his cousin's fate rests upon my safe return. And besides, Cirdan, I do not believe he would be able to contain me."

The shipwright snorted softly and proceeded to disprove his young sovereign. "You may be match for him, child, but odds of fifty thousand to one are poor even for you. Achilles may be willing to let you go, yes – but what about the others? I highly doubt they will be so lenient. We will simply end up exchanging hostages, and then your work of the past four days will truly have been for naught."

Cirdan's voice dropped, cautioning. "Furthermore, Agamemnon may not deem it a fair trade – the High King of the Elves in exchange for a single boy? I'm sure Achilles would agree to it readily enough, but you would be relying entirely on his sway over Agamemnon. You cannot go, Ereinion! Especially not now that we ourselves are leaving in the morning. Do you not still feel this urgency to return home as quickly as possible?"

"I do, Cirdan," Gil-galad conceded quietly, still gazing out to the Sea. "Believe me, I do. And I know you are correct – as usual. Thus, the reason you are my most trusted advisor."

"Then why this sudden madness, child?"

The ebon-haired Elf gave a weary sigh. "I don't know. Perhaps, it's just that I've had three days with nothing to do but think – about what pain I have brought to this child, and how it so closely resembles all that I endured."

"You tell me he has already gone through this once before."

"Exactly, Cirdan. I don't know whether having suffered through all this before makes the second time more bearable, or only worse."

Gil-galad then turned around to meet his companion's keen gaze, though his own grey eyes seemed suddenly lost in a distant memory. "When I first came to the Havens, Cirdan, I was terrified by the thought of what would happen if you did not want me – for what would I have done as a defiant and perfectly helpless Elfling? To this day, I am grateful that I never had to know the trauma of such rejection, yet here I have subjected Patroclus to that very thing."

"Have you, Ereinion?" the venerable shipwright questioned stoically. "Or has Achilles?"

The noble son of Fingon hesitated. "Both of us, I suppose," he said at last. "But I still do not understand how Achilles can be so heartless toward his own kin."

"I know," Cirdan empathized, standing and coming over to lay a steadfast hand on his King's shoulder. "Perhaps someday in the far-off future, you will understand; but the time for comprehension in this place is long past. We leave in the morning, and your sole duty now is to prepare for our journey home. Get some rest, child. Everything else is in place, and you will need it."

Gil-galad nodded his consent, though he was still reluctant to abandon his nocturnal endeavor. He would return to his chambers to placate Cirdan, but he would find no rest there. For he knew full well what awaited him.

* * *

Patroclus was still huddled on the floor, staring aimlessly out the window when Gil-galad returned; and when the boy glanced up at him, the sad, listless look in his eyes made the King's heart break. He saw himself there – a lost child, lonely and afraid, thrust all too soon into a world that was far too big.

Battling every urge imaginable to wrap the boy up in an embrace meant to offer comfort, Gil-galad settled instead on lifting him from the floor with a gentle grip on his arms and leading him back over to the bed. Patroclus sat down without protest while Gil-galad drew up a chair and seated himself opposite the young Greek.

"You still have not heard from him."

The softly spoken words were hardly a question, yet the Elf thought it only fair to answer all the same.

"No," he confessed quietly, "we have heard nothing."

The pause that followed stretched uncomfortably long before the boy finally gathered sufficient courage to speak again.

"Then what are you going to do with me?" he asked in a small voice, and his gaze as he looked at his captor was a confused blend of trust and apprehension.

Gil-galad sighed deeply. "In all honesty, young one, I had not given much thought to this outcome, for I never dreamed that it would come to this. The ransom note I left your cousin implies that his failure to respond will result in your death – but Varda knows I could never harm you, child."

He pushed a loose strand of blonde hair away from Patroclus' face then, letting his hand linger on the back of the boy's head.

"What exactly did you tell him?" the youth questioned, his eyes now locked on the floor.

"All I said was that he would never see you again, which by no means necessitates killing you. But I leave the choice in your hands, Patroclus. If you like, you may stay here in Troy with hopes that Achilles has somehow been delayed but will come for you over the next few days. But my heart is heavy with fear for my own lands; and whether this nameless danger rears its head tomorrow or in a hundred years, I _must_ leave in the morning, regardless of what may happen here.

"So if you stay, child, you will be entirely at the mercy of the Trojans, and I am afraid you are already well acquainted with the feelings many of them harbor toward you and your cousin. But Achilles' time has technically run out, and should he come, I do not know if the Trojans will relinquish you to him as easily as I would. They may very well decide even to take your life, and I will no longer be here to protect you. So, if you'd rather, you are more than welcome to return with us tomorrow to Lindon."

Patroclus frowned. "You mean as a slave?" He shuddered, recalling with vivid imagery the customary treatment of such slaves and prisoners of war in the Greek cultures.

But Gil-galad was quick to clarify. "No – as my personal ward, your only restriction being that you remain within the borders of my kingdom. Lindon is a vast and beautiful country, and I doubt that you would tire of it. It may not be your home, but you would be safe there. And I may not be your cousin, but you would have my protection to the fullest extent that I can offer it. Yet you would have no chance of ever seeing him again."

The royal Elf paused, allowing his words a moment to sink in. "Such is the unhappy alternative that lies before you, Patroclus. Think on it tonight, and tell me of your decision in the morning."

Gil-galad rose then and departed in silence, leaving the young Greek alone with his melancholy thoughts; and even though he was now alone, Patroclus still bit down hard on his lip to hold back the threatening deluge of tears. Achilles would not come for him, regardless of whatever false hopes Gil-galad might entertain. If he had not come by now, he wasn't going to come at all. Patroclus should have known not to expect anything different when the first day went by without any word from his cousin.

The blonde youth swallowed hard to be rid of the stubborn lump in his throat, but it would not be moved, nor could the aching emptiness in his chest be soothed. He wasn't sure they would ever go away.

But there was simply no escaping the dilemma now set before him. He must choose, and he intended to use every available minute of the night to dwell on it. Yet Patroclus knew deep down that before Gil-galad had even left the room, his fate had already been irrevocably decided.

**Author's End Note:** Ah, yes, the Moment of Truth! And it's about time, too, I've been working up to this for quite a while, lol! And for all of you who may be missing him, Achilles is back in the next chapter, and he should be more prominent from now until the end. Feel free to let me know what you think, I appreciate it! Hugs to you all!


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary : **Achilles' heel is not his only weakness. An AU crossover between Troy and Second Age Middle Earth. Focal characters include Patroclus, Achilles, and Gil-galad, along with many others from both stories.

**Disclaimer: **I do not own "Troy," the _Iliad_, or anything affiliated with Tolkien.

**Author's Note: **Hey, everybody, sorry I've left you hanging for so long! A quick look at my profile will tell you that I have been writing, but the creative inspiration was being directed elsewhere for a time. I actually wrote a oneshot called "The First Storm" that was kind of inspired by a line I had earlier in this fic about how Ereinion would go to Cirdan when he was scared as a kid. So if you were amused by that idea, you'd probably like the oneshot also. But I'm back now, and I sincerely hope the subsequent chapters will be up sooner. Thanks to **Tori, Blackeri, lozvamp, **and **Whilom** for their reviews on the last chapter, and thanks to all my readers for your patience! Things at work are about to get really crazy in a week or so, but I promise I'll try my best to keep this one updated in a timely fashion. Also, I owe a huge Thank You to **Tori **for all her support and unexpected updates to make me smile the past couple of days. One of my rats, Gonzo, died the night of July 30, so it's been a bit of a rough week. Thanks for everything, **Tori**, I can't tell you how much I appreciate all your help and concern! But I'll be quiet now, so you can read the chapter I've withheld from you all for quite some time. Enjoy!

**Chapter 18**

Achilles stood atop a dune of sand just outside the Greek encampments, watching with mixed emotions as the white ships of the Elves sailed leisurely off into the distance. Gil-galad was going home; and while Achilles knew the Elf King's absence would facilitate future Greek attacks upon the city, he still somewhat regretted that the two of them had never been given the chance to fight. It would have been the challenge of a lifetime, at least according to Odysseus.

But what was more, it might have offered some distraction, some small diversion to momentarily direct his thoughts away from his deceased cousin. Heart heavy, Achilles closed his eyes and hung his head, fighting back tears for what seemed to be the hundredth time in only three days. He was determined not to let his men see him cry, but they did not know that he had cried himself to sleep these past three nights without fail.

He slept alone now, desiring not even Briseis' company. He longed for solitude and sought it at every opportunity. For with Patroclus gone, his world had turned into a living nightmare from which there could be no waking, and the only ray of light that shone faintly through the gloom of his despondence was the anticipation of confronting Hector in the very near future. Confronting him, and destroying him. Patroclus would be avenged.

The golden-haired warrior raised his head again, and the Elven ships were now little more than small white specks to the north. Achilles would never confess it to anyone – indeed, he could scarcely admit it even to himself – but in his heart of hearts, he was glad that Gil-galad had not been the one responsible for his cousin's death. As he'd told Odysseus several days previously, he would have sincerely regretted killing such a rare thing as a king willing to fight for himself.

But then again, his victory would by no means have been guaranteed. Achilles had never encountered his equal among mortals, but Gil-galad was no mortal warrior. Odysseus certainly put great faith in his abilities. The Ithacan had even seen Achilles' skill in combat, yet he still had his doubts as to who would win between them. Perhaps Achilles' initial confidence as far as the Elf King was concerned had been unfounded. But now they would never know.

* * *

Little did the Myrmidon lord know that his silent watching was being returned from afar. Gil-galad likewise stood unmoving on the deck of his ship, strong hands gripping the railing as he looked out toward the Greek ships that grew rapidly smaller as the distance between them lengthened.

Yet his keen Elf eyes saw more than those of mortals ever could, and what he saw sent a hot surge of anger rising up within his chest. Achilles was still there, the black-sailed ships of his Myrmidons precisely where the Elf had seen them before during his time within the camps. So the Greek warlord had stolidly remained there by the ships all this time, while his young cousin had waited helplessly in a prolonged state of anxiety and growing confusion.

Gil-galad's bright eyes narrowed. It was well for Achilles that the expanse of the Sea lay between them, for at this moment, he would have savored the prospect of dueling this feared warrior. He would not kill the Greek champion, of course, for what would become of Patroclus then? But he would nevertheless have relished an opportunity to humble the mighty Achilles; and given his anger at present, that would not have been too difficult.

Yet they were moving swiftly with a strong wind, much to his relief, and it was not long before the Greek ships had passed beyond even his sight. The time available for Achilles' intervention had come to a most unpleasant and inexorable end. With a sad sigh, the High Elven King turned away from the shores of Troy and slowly made his way below deck.

* * *

Patroclus sat huddled in a heap on the floor in the dim light of the ship's belly. He had not been told to stay here in this neglected corner of what looked to be little more than a store room, but the truth was that he had simply been content with the uneven pile of old sailcloth he was now seated upon. He hugged his knees up to his chest and rested his chin on them, all the while blinking back tears at a furious rate.

Leaving Troy had been even more miserable than arriving, for he had felt the eyes of so many people upon him as they'd left, so many spiteful stares. But the worst had been knowing that his unseen tormentors of the first night had probably been there, too, looking on like all the rest, and he would never know. He had willingly stayed very near to Gil-galad when they had departed through the city, and would have done so even without the Elf King's prior instructions reiterating the caution.

Patroclus shuddered suddenly as the reminiscing brought renewed terror to his already troubled mind. He glanced down at his hands. Gil-galad had bound them loosely before their departure, stating with a quick apology that "pretenses must be kept." But the young Greek had offered no objection. After all, he had been given free reign over his limbs once again as soon as they were on the ship. And had he not been so distraught, he might have taken the time to notice the beauty of their pristine white vessel, unlike any ship he had ever seen before.

No doubt he would soon encounter many new things he had never seen before. Things in Lindon…

"Child?"

The Elf's entrance had been silent, as always, but Patroclus did not seem to have been at all startled by his appearance. He did not even look up at the soft, familiar sound of his captor's voice.

"Did you see him?"

The boy's quiet inquiry took Gil-galad by surprise.

"What do you mean?" he asked with a frown.

"I once heard Odysseus say that the Elves have incredible eyesight," Patroclus explained, clearly struggling to keep the emotion out of his voice. "And I know you would have looked for Achilles as we were leaving. Was he still there?"

He looked up at the tall Elven King then, his blue eyes pleading for an honest answer, although he wasn't entirely sure which one would be easier to bear: that his beloved cousin had left Troy without him, or that his self-appointed guardian of seven years had abandoned him to his fate, deliberately refusing to come for him.

Gil-galad held his gaze a while, weighing his own options as to which response his young prisoner would rather hear. But no – he could not betray this child's confidence now. He was all the boy had left, the only constant remaining to him in the foreseeable future.

"I will not lie to you, Patroclus," he began slowly, coming a few steps closer, yet he still hesitated before divulging the unfortunate news. "He was there."

Patroclus nodded, outwardly composed for a few pained moments of silence, but then the events of the past four days finally came crashing in on him, demolishing any barriers of hope that might have sustained him until now. The boy's head slowly drooped, like a flower bending beneath spring rains; and the tears came, falling as though they had been loosed from a dam. Humiliated, he fought to choke them back, but their flow could not be stemmed.

Yet it did not matter. Gil-galad settled down beside him without a word, and was only mildly surprised when the child suddenly leaned over into him, longing for any comfort within reach. He gently held the trembling boy against his chest as he wept, having nothing more than the familiarity of his presence to offer in support.

Meanwhile, Patroclus clung desperately to his captor's arms and sobbed into his shoulder, overwhelmed at last by all he had endured in recent days. It was too much! Too much…

But Gil-galad did not mind. It had not been so very different with himself long ago. He had kept his childhood frame tall and proud for as long as possible, but had likewise broken down into a fit of lonely tears one dark and stormy evening, only to find unexpected refuge in the strong, weathered arms of a gruff old shipwright.

He methodically stroked the boy's blonde hair, feeling him shake helplessly within the arms that held him steady. Time all seemed a blur then, and Gil-galad did not know how long they had been sitting there in the darkness of the ship's interior. But finally, the form resting heavily against him was still, and the Elf looked down on his young captive. Patroclus had fallen asleep, the sudden outpour of emotion having conquered him at last.

The King lifted his hand to wipe away the tears that still dampened the exhausted child's cheeks, but the motion came to an abrupt halt as soon as his fingers made contact with the soft skin. He closed his eyes, wishing more than anything that the boy encircled within his grasp could be spared this new affliction, but it was too late. Patroclus was warm – too warm.

Gil-galad sighed. He should not have been surprised, really. The youth had endured more physical and emotional strain in the past four days than he had known in his entire life, except perhaps during the time when he had lost his parents. But even that might have paled in comparison to this nightmare. What was more, the boy had not eaten properly since his capture; and Gil-galad was quite certain he had not slept at all this past night, their last in the city.

But the fever had set in now and would have to be allowed to run its course, although the Elven monarch intended to provide his new charge with every available treatment to expedite the process. Gil-galad rose to his feet, easily lifting the unconscious boy in his arms, and made his way back to his own cabin.

* * *

The sun had set on that same day when Achilles strode through the Myrmidon camp in search of his second-in-command.

"Eudorus," he called when he found his comrade seated apart from the other soldiers, staring off inland toward Troy.

"My lord." The dark-haired man moved at once to stand in his lord's presence, for they had seen very little of Achilles since his young cousin's passing.

But the son of Peleus stayed him with a strong hand on his shoulder and sat down beside his faithful follower.

He spoke quietly. "I am sorry I have not been myself lately, Eudorus."

"Your grief can hardly be held against you, my lord," the other reassured him gently. "We understand."

He spoke true, for all Myrmidons knew the sorrow of losing a close comrade. And Achilles could not help but be grateful for the genuine empathy.

"Thank you, Eudorus. You have been a loyal friend all your life, and I could not have asked for a more steadfast brother in arms. Not once have you disappointed me, and I apologize for not having made my appreciation known more often." The warlord then drew a deep breath and let it out slowly. "But now there is one more request that I must make of you."

"Anything, my lord," Eudorus agreed readily. "Whatever it is, you need only to name it, and we will obey."

Achilles paused before replying, his thoughts wandering back in time against his will to another similar response; and his throat constricted painfully in a sudden resurgence of sorrow as he remembered. _Soldiers obey…_

The golden-haired warrior reluctantly dragged himself back to the present. "I want you to prepare the men and take them home in the morning." He spoke slowly so there could be no misunderstanding his instructions, but Eudorus was clearly disbelieving.

"What, my lord?"

"I don't want our men to have any part of this," the Myrmidon commander explained further.

"But aren't you coming with us?" his second asked, still confused.

Achilles slowly shook his head. "I have my own battle to fight."

"Then we march beside you," Eudorus insisted. "As always."

"Not this time, my friend." There was little emotion in that statement, but Achilles' definiteness of purpose shone through; and Eudorus knew then that his captain would not be swayed.

"How will you be getting home then?" he asked softly, conceding at last to what he knew could not be altered.

But Achilles looked away, casting his eyes downward. "I don't think there will be any going home for me."

He let the topic drop at that and was relieved when Eudorus did not pursue the matter. There was no need now to disclose all that his goddess mother had revealed to him before the war, for he had come to fully accept his fate. After all, the glory of his actions would echo across the centuries, and he would soon be reunited in the Underworld with the one who had always been dearest to him. What was there to be upset about?

"It's a beautiful night," he commented, rising suddenly to his feet. "Go, Eudorus. This is the last order I give you."

With that, the Greek warlord bent to take his friend's face in his hands and placed a light kiss of blessing atop his head before turning to walk away. But he had not gone far when Eudorus' voice calling out from behind made him stop.

"Fighting for you has been my life's honor, my lord."

Achilles turned his head to see that his ever-faithful comrade was also standing now, his clear blue eyes unwavering in their commitment as he finished speaking. And the famed warrior graciously inclined his head in return, far more pleased with that simple statement than his stoic face would ever show. Then the godlike son of Peleus moved on, leaving his oldest friend behind in the shadows.

He strolled farther along the shadowy beach in contemplative silence, gazing ahead to where Agamemnon's soldiers were still scurrying about to complete the monstrous wooden structure in their midst. In only a number of days, all would be ready for the commencement of Odysseus' master plan. The Horse was almost finished.


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary: **Achilles' heel is not his only weakness. An AU crossover between Troy and Second Age Middle Earth. Focal characters include Patroclus, Achilles, and Gil-galad, along with many others from both stories.

**Disclaimer: **I wish I could own at least one of these awesome characters, but I don't. So sad!

**Author's Note: **Hey, I told you all I'd have this next chapter up sooner! Thanks to **Tori** and **Whilom **for their encouraging reviews and for sticking with me through this whole thing! I love you guys, you're the best! Also, kudos to **Tori **for her assistance in helping me decide how to lay out the events in this chapter, and in many more to come. Thanks so much, Tori-kins, lol! FYI, the italics represent Patroclus' dream, which was actually **Tori's **brilliant idea. So please enjoy this installment, and feel free to review, I would love to hear from you!

**Chapter 19**

A light breeze blew in softly from the Sea, and Hector could not help but think how calm the Trojan beach now was in contrast with the violence of past weeks. But the fact of it remained – the Greeks were gone, with absolutely no warning, and the long beach was deserted as far as the eye could see. Deserted, that was, except for the bodies of a few dozen Greek soldiers, all of whom bore evidence of having died by the plague.

"They desecrated the temple of Apollo, and Apollo desecrated their flesh," one of the high priests noted in awe, but Hector was not so sure. The plague was a horrible thing indeed, but he could scarcely believe that Agamemnon was a man to be driven away by mere pestilence.

King Priam of Troy walked gingerly amongst the bodies, waving away his generals' warnings not to get too close. He then looked upward and squinted against the bright sun as he observed the one remaining artifact left behind by their Greek enemies – the likeness of a giant horse, fashioned from the charred remains of ships that had been burned over the course of the war.

"What is it?" he asked slowly.

"No one knows for certain, my king," one of the priests replied, "but we believe it to be a gift to Poseidon. The Greeks are praying for a safe return home."

"I hope Poseidon spits on their offering," Glaucus snarled, looking as though he might spit on the wooden monstrosity himself.

Paris then spoke up from beside his father. "I think we should burn it."

"Burn it?" the same priest echoed in dismay. "My prince, it is a gift to the gods!"

"I would burn all of Greece at once, if I had a torch big enough," Glaucus put in.

"I agree with Paris," Hector concurred, nodding. "This does not feel right. The Horse should be destroyed."

Priam did not respond right away, and his younger son leaned in closer.

"Father," Paris insisted urgently, "burn it!"

But the elderly king's devout allegiance to his deities would not be swayed, and he ordered the Horse to be brought into the main courtyard in the heart of the city. Hector followed at a wary distance as men roped the Horse and hauled it over a series of logs into Troy, his heart still uneasy with this course of action. Yet apart from Paris and Glaucus, he was alone in his reservations.

The Trojan populace immediately commenced in a joyous celebration of their unexpected victory, with people dancing gleefully in the streets and singing hymns of thanks to Apollo. But even amidst the elation of his countrymen, Prince Hector couldn't help feeling that, had he been here to witness these events, Gil-galad would not have so readily approved.

The festivities lasted until sundown when the weary, yet happy, inhabitants of Troy finally decided to return home for the night. But Hector stayed, still eyeing the gargantuan Horse with growing apprehension. He remained in his seat in the dark shadows of the balcony for some time, but nothing happened. Everything was so still, almost unsettlingly so; even the nocturnal insects seemed absent this night.

Hector sighed and rubbed a hand across his tired eyes. He should probably head back now, as well. After all, Andromache would be missing him, and Hector had no doubt that her joy surpassed that of all others – for her beloved husband was safe, hers to cherish and enjoy for the rest of their lives, now that the war was finally over! So the eldest prince of Troy took one last, long look at the wooden Horse in his city's courtyard and reluctantly made his way home.

* * *

_Patroclus tried desperately to make his small form shrink back against the wall behind him, looking fearfully up at his new guardian. It was only his second day here, and already he had made Achilles mad. And if the rumors he'd heard were true, there were always consequences when Achilles was angry._

_The great warrior towering above him sighed, exasperated. "Patroclus!" _

_The boy jumped when he heard his name spoken so sharply, but still he did not say anything. Not wanting to anger his legendary cousin further, he timidly shut his mouth and averted his eyes._

"_Patroclus." Achilles' voice was softer this time, and the ten-year-old looked up to see his new caretaker stepping closer to him. His big blue eyes grew even wider when Achilles knelt down in front of him so that their eyes were level and took hold of him firmly by the shoulders. Patroclus tensed at the contact, his eyes darting nervously to his cousin's hands. They were so large, so strong…_

"_Patroclus, look at me," Achilles ordered, and the boy complied, mostly just to appease his guardian. _

_But when their eyes met, Patroclus saw so much more than the harshness he had expected from a famed killer. Instead, he saw care and genuine compassion within those deep blue orbs, along with something else he could not quite place. Might it have been uncertainty, perhaps, or apprehension? Even fear?_

"_Patroclus," Achilles called again, "I know you're scared. This is all new to both of us, and it's happening so fast. Believe me, cousin, I feel the same way. I'm afraid neither of us is well prepared for these new arrangements. But we are family, Patroclus, and you can trust me."_

_His grip on the boy's shoulders tightened emphatically, and Patroclus nodded, though Achilles suspected it to be nothing more than an automatic response contrived to placate him. He let another frustrated sigh. What hope was there of reaching this frightened new orphan if he refused to open his mouth? Their inability to communicate was what had gotten them into this predicament in the first place._

"_What's wrong, Patroclus?" he tried once more. "Tell me!" The words instinctively came out more like a command shouted on the battlefield, and although Achilles regretted it, he had to refrain himself from forcibly shaking the boy by his shoulders to prompt a response. He was still so small, so frail…_

_Meanwhile, Patroclus squirmed uncomfortably in his guardian's grasp. "I just…" he began miserably, his voice trembling. "I…I miss them," he finally managed to whisper, dropping his gaze to the floor, and Achilles froze when he saw the tears escaping from those wide stormy blue eyes._

"_Patroclus," he said softly, his heart at last breaking for this lonely child; and he pulled his new charge into a close embrace, drawing him up against his own strong torso._

"_I know," he spoke quietly into the boy's ear. "I know you miss them, and I know I can never truly take their place. But I will always be here for you, to keep you safe." Achilles held the boy's head against his chest, gently stroking the mop of blonde hair. "You are mine to protect now, my little cousin; and when you're in trouble, I will always come for you. I will never allow anything like this to happen to you again – I promise."_

_Patroclus nodded again into his cousin's shoulder, but this time, he meant it. He could hear Achilles' heart beating beneath his ear and thought it the sweetest sound he had heard in a long while. For even though they had just met, Patroclus somehow felt that he could trust his new guardian's promises to be the same as his heartbeat – strong and steady. He would be safe here with this great warrior._

_The boy buried his face in Achilles' chest then, tears falling freely as he rubbed his tired head against the older man's simple blue tunic. When he spoke next, it was scarcely audible, yet Patroclus knew his cousin would hear._

"_Thank you, Achilles. Thank you, cousin."_

* * *

"Achilles…Cousin…"

Ereinion Gil-galad looked on in silent pity as Patroclus tossed and turned restlessly on his bed, the child's mind tormented by fevered dreams. The boy had not yet awoken since the fever had taken hold, and for hours now he had been calling out sporadically for his far-off cousin. Gil-galad had done everything in his power to ease the burning ailment, but now there was nothing left to be done except to wait. And so he sat in his cabin by the youth's bedside, watching helplessly as the boy thrashed and muttered in his sleep.

"Cousin, please…Achilles…"

Gil-galad reached over and once again wiped the child's sweaty face with a cool, damp cloth. The Elven King sighed. He may not know exactly what dreams or visions were passing through the boy's troubled mind, but they were clearly in relation to his cousin – to the man Patroclus must still subconsciously hope would come for him. But that would not happen. Achilles was being left far behind on the beaches of Troy, and these two cousins would never see each other again.

He glanced up, and upon seeing the moonlight filtering in through his cabin window, decided to return to the main deck, although he wasn't entirely sure what he would do when he got there. The Elf chuckled quietly to himself and shook his head, remembering that Cirdan had already admonished him more than once that no amount of pacing would hasten their return journey. If anything, it would only serve to wear a very convenient hole in the deck of a vessel the shipwright had spent years in constructing.

Gil-galad rose and headed for the door. He had managed earlier to force some water down the boy's parched throat, and that would have to suffice for the time being. But just as he reached for the doorknob, the raven-haired Elf was brought to a halt by the sound of his own name being softly uttered from behind him.

"Gil-galad…"

The immortal King turned around, expecting to see that his young prisoner of war had at last woken up, but the boy was still unconscious as he called out in the delirium of his fever. Genuinely surprised, Gil-galad hesitated. But Patroclus cried out again, louder this time, and confirmed that the Elf's attentive ears had not deceived him.

"Gil-galad…" The boy was twisting his head from side to side, and his chest heaved with the effort of his labored breathing.

Gil-galad responded to the summons, coming back over to the bed despite his lingering skepticism. He could hardly believe the child would be asking for him when he was the one who had brought all these trials upon him in the first place. Perhaps he was having more of a positive impact on his captive than he realized?

But whatever the reason, Patroclus wanted him, whether the youth was aware of it or not. Gil-galad resumed his seat by the bedside and took one of the child's hands in his own while gently laying the other across his burning forehead. Patroclus calmed almost immediately at the touch. His senseless flailing was stilled, and his breathing began to return to a normal rate.

He still did not wake, but Gil-galad did not mind. And the noble Elf could not help but smile to see the tranquilizing effect his mere presence had on the ill mortal. He then gave the boy's limp hand a quick squeeze and settled himself into a more comfortable position beside his charge.

He could wait until morning to go above deck. After all, no matter how much it may vex Cirdan, there would be ample time in the future for pacing.

**Author's End Note: **Sorry this chapter's a bit shorter than my usual, but hopefully you can forgive me when I tell you that the next chapter is when Achilles finally finds out what's going on. Yay! But it would be too long for me to fit that whole thing into this installment, which I do hope to have up soon. Hope you're having as much fun reading as I am writing, and I'll ttyl!


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary: **Achilles' heel is not his only weakness. An AU crossover between Troy and Second Age Middle Earth. Focal characters include Patroclus, Achilles, and Gil-galad, along with many others from both stories.

**Disclaimer: **Nope, I don't own them - not even on my birthday.

**Author's Note: **Hey, everybody! Yes, today is indeed my twentieth birthday, and in celebration, it is my privilege to present all you fantastic readers with this long-awaited chapter, in which Achilles finally figures everything out. A thousand thank-you's to **Torilei, Blackeri, lozvamp, **and **Whilom **for your reviews on the last chapter! You guys just keep making my day, I love you all! Now, I know you've been waiting long enough for this, so, without any further ado, here's the update. Enjoy!

**Chapter 20**

Prince Hector rolled over in bed for what seemed like the hundredth time that night. His wife, Andromache, slept soundly beside him, her sleeping face a perfect picture of peace and contentment. But Hector could not sleep. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw the Horse, though he still could not explain why the image filled him with such vague yet undeniable dread.

He finally got up from the bed and walked over to their bedroom window, staring out toward where he knew the Horse to be. He was sorely tempted to go back down to the courtyard; but it was hours after midnight now, and still nothing had happened. Perhaps he was simply overanalyzing another harmless situation, as his family often teased him of doing. It was a possibility, but possibilities would not make his time of rest any more serene.

Hector was just about to turn from the window and attempt once more to sleep when, suddenly, he saw it. His heart froze cold in his chest, and for a single, agonizing moment, there was nothing he could do but stare. Black smoke was rising from the direction of the city gate, and a soft red glow could be seen slowly spreading inward. Troy was burning.

"Andromache!"

The sleeping woman awoke instantly upon hearing her husband's urgent call and roused herself from the bed.

"Hector, what is it?" she asked him, her dark eyes wide in alarm.

"The Greeks are inside the walls," Hector told her, hurrying to don his armor. "Take Astyanax, we're going to get Helen and Paris."

Andromache snatched up her child, far too frightened by this turn of events to be perturbed when the baby began to cry at all the commotion.

"Where are we going?"

Hector finished strapping on his armor and grabbed his sword. "I'm going to show you a way out of here. Now, hurry!"

Screams from distant places of the city could be heard rising up to the palace, and the chaos was all too rapidly approaching. Paris and Helen were already awake when the older couple arrived at their door; and after Paris had grabbed his bow and quiver, they followed Hector and Andromache out into the night.

Hector led them down a short distance from the palace and through some of the city's back alleys, a crowd of people accumulating to follow them along the way until they came at last to a heavy, unassuming wooden door. The elder prince swung it open and handed a torch to Helen.

"Follow the tunnel," he hurriedly instructed them. "There are no turns, so you can't get lost, just keep walking. When you get to the river, follow it up to Mount Ida, where you will be safe for the time being. Now, quickly, go!"

"Aren't you coming with us?" Andromache questioned, looking panicked. "I'm not leaving without you!"

"I will follow you," Hector reassured her, "but I'm not leaving without my father." He gently took his wife's face in his hands and kissed her warmly. "I promise I will follow as soon as I can, but I am not going to let this city fall without a fight. Now go, please!"

Andromache nodded, fighting back tears, and watched helplessly as her husband planted a quick kiss on their son's head before running off into the burning city.

* * *

The uproar coming from the Trojan temple could be heard at a great distance, and Hector quickened his pace, knowing that Priam would surely be there.

"Father!" he called frantically and finally spotted the old man.

King Priam stood in the middle of the temple, sword in hand, and was looking on in horror as the Greeks looted his sacred place of worship.

"Have you no honor?" he shouted at his enemies, enraged.

"Father!" Hector cried again, but the elderly king did not hear him. So he ran, desperate to reach his father before one of the Greeks decided to stop their pillaging and finish the old man. He was too late.

"Have you no honor?!" But even as Priam again screamed his challenge, he was suddenly cut down from behind when Agamemnon thrust his spear point directly through the old man's heart. The Trojan king fell to the ground and lay still.

"FATHER!" Hector had seen it all, and he reached the two kings, one dead and one living, just as Agamemnon was turning away from his slaughtered victim.

The Mycenaean ruler had no time to call for help or even utter a cry of fear upon seeing the man who would be his killer. His eyes could only widen in terror before Hector brought back his own sword with an infuriated cry and took off the King of King's head with a single stroke. Agamemnon's eyes were still wide open when his head hit the temple floor.

"Father…" Hector knelt beside Priam's body and closed the older man's eyes, all the while choking back tears. But this was not the time for grief. The Trojan prince rose to his feet, prepared to wreak havoc on the other Greeks inside Apollo's temple, when a flash of light suddenly caught his eye.

He looked closer and saw that it was firelight from the burning city reflected off the golden armor of Achilles himself. Hector's first reaction was one of excitement, the elating thrill of being able to face the Greek champion again. But his joy soon gave way to sheer horror when he realized that Achilles was running back in the direction of the palace – back toward the tunnel.

Cursing under his breath, Hector sprinted after his nemesis, taking a few short cuts he knew of along the way, so that he was able to intercept Achilles just before the other warrior could reach the tunnel. He brandished his sword out in front of him, and the Myrmidon came to an abrupt halt.

Achilles drew his own sword, his face twisting into a cruel smile. "There you are, Prince of Troy. I've been looking for you."

Hector opened his mouth to retort; but before he could utter a single word, Achilles attacked, striking out with such vehemence that the prince was driven backward. He tried to pull back from the onslaught and stall for a moment in which to collect himself; but Achilles was relentless, driving each blow home with such force as Hector had never seen, or felt, before.

Clearly, Achilles had singled Hector out to be the recipient of all his aggression, which would have been understandable considering that these two warriors were the best that their respective nations had to offer. But the Myrmidon warlord held nothing back and was attacking with such passion and unbridled fury that Hector couldn't help but wonder if he had perhaps done something previously to warrant such rage from his adversary.

But there was certainly no time to ask questions; for Achilles continued his unrelenting assault upon the Trojan prince, driving him back at a furious rate until Hector finally lost his footing on a small flight of stairs and fell hard upon the stone. There was the sickening crunch and pop of a breaking bone, and Hector cried out in pain as his knee was wrenched sideways during the fall.

Achilles slowly followed him down the stairs, each deliberate step bringing Hector's doom that much closer. The son of Peleus smirked down at his vanquished foe and nodded toward the tunnel he had just noticed behind them.

"Your family has escaped through there," he taunted the prince, only now comprehending Hector's earlier desperation to confront him. "And you were trying to protect them."

"Please," Hector begged him, face contorting in pain as he tried to push himself up from the ground. "Kill me if you must, Achilles, but let them go!"

"Why should I?" Achilles snapped in blinding surge of hatred. "You did nothing to spare my family!"

Even Hector had been surprised by the Myrmidon lord's sharp vehemence; but when he heard this, the prince's resolve suddenly faltered.

"What do you mean?" he asked, visibly confused.

"Don't you remember, Prince of Troy?" Achilles goaded his adversary's memory; the golden warrior's rage was mounting all the while as he, too, remembered the tragedy that had brought him here. "Only a week ago, you led an assault on our ships in the middle of the night, sending a rain of fire down upon us. My cousin was killed in that attack. He died in his sleep while his tent burned to the ground around him! He was only seventeen, Hector."

His voice dropped then, low and menacing. "The only thing that has kept me from dying of grief since then has been the prospect of avenging him. And before we came here, I swore that if anything happened to my cousin, I would make every Trojan alive wish they had never been born! And it begins with you. You die tonight, Prince of Troy."

Achilles stepped forward, his sword raised to deliver the killing blow.

"Wait!" Hector exclaimed. "Wait, Achilles, your cousin isn't dead!"

The great warrior froze, sword still in midair. "What?"

"Your cousin is not dead," the prince emphasized again, frantic to explain. He understood now – Achilles had never received Gil-galad's note of ransom. It had burned up with the boy's tent, but the youth himself had been nowhere near it at the time. Everything finally fit into place!

"He wasn't in his tent that night we attacked your ships," Hector went on.

"How do you know?" Achilles frowned. He was skeptical, but he could not help remembering that there had been no bones or any other evidence of a human body scattered throughout the ashen remains of his cousin's tent. And in that moment, he dared to hope that maybe, just maybe, his Trojan nemesis was right.

"I know because he was here, in the city." Hector drew a deep breath and finally revealed what Achilles should have known days ago. "Gil-galad captured your cousin that same night, _before _we launched our attack. He left a ransom note in your cousin's tent, stating his conditions for the boy's safe return; but apparently, the tent was destroyed. And you never got the note."

Achilles stared down at Hector, his heart pounding against his ribs, and the lust for this man's blood suddenly drained out of his blue eyes. Could it be true? How did he know the Prince of Troy wasn't simply lying to buy time? But no. It all made too much sense, and suddenly, the invincible warrior had to struggle to draw breath as his chest tightened in a painful mixture of joy and fear.

"What were the Elf King's terms?" he managed to inquire, almost breathless in his shock.

"He asked that you and the Myrmidons leave Troy for good. You had three days to respond."

_Three days,_ Achilles repeated silently to himself. Three days that had no doubt expired long ago. But the boy had clearly been held for ransom, and Achilles had not responded in time to save him, albeit through no witting fault of his own. So what had become of Patroclus?

"Where is my cousin now?" he questioned, simultaneously anticipating and dreading the response. And Hector's hesitant pause did nothing to help matters.

"Where?" Achilles forcefully demanded again.

"He is with the Elves," the prince answered at last. "When Gil-galad left, he took your cousin with him."

"With the Elves," the Myrmidon lord echoed softly, his thoughts still a blur. He could not believe this! Patroclus was alive – _alive_! But the boy was far away now, and Zeus only knew what kind of state he was in.

"I don't believe Gil-galad meant him any harm," Hector began, no doubt guessing his opponent's thoughts; but the other man cut him off.

"_I _will be the judge of that!"

Yet the Trojan persisted. "He protected your cousin while he was here."

"That's only because he was still valuable then," Achilles argued sharply, and he recalled with painful clarity the treatment Briseis had received while held captive within the Greek camps. He knew nothing of the Elves – what if they were as cruel as mortals in this regard, especially if their prisoner was no longer of any value to them?

Achilles wanted to fall to his knees and groan out his anguish to the heavens, but he dare not show such weakness in front of his fallen adversary. Oh gods, help him! He had never felt so lost, so helpless. His cousin was a prisoner of war, hundreds of miles away, and he did not even have his Myrmidons nearby to support him in a pursuit. Why, oh why, had he sent them home?

"The Myrmidons are no longer here," Hector surmised, speaking into his turbulent thoughts. "Are they?"

The demigod only shook his golden head and stared off into the darkest corner of the alley he could find. His throat was tight, and he still did not trust himself to speak without betraying a myriad of emotions that he did not wish the Trojan to see. But he knew full well what he had to do.

"Achilles?"

Upon hearing his own name, the son of Peleus pulled himself back to the present and looked down once more on Hector, shocked to see that there was genuine empathy within the prince's dark eyes.

"I do not know if it will suit your purposes," Hector went on, "but there is a small ship hidden in the caves down by where the river empties out into the ocean. We keep it there for the royal family in case of an emergency evacuation by sea, but I do not believe we will need it now. You are welcome to it, should you so desire."

Achilles nodded stiffly and cleared his throat. "Thank you, Prince of Troy. I will accept your offer."

He then made a move as if to leave but stopped short, turning back to the man still fallen on the ground. "Your cousin, Briseis, is waiting for me outside the city near the riverbank. Take her with you when you leave."

"She's alive?" Hector exclaimed, now equally surprised in turn; but his joyous smile soon faded to suspicion and confusion. "But why give her back?"

Achilles swallowed thickly around a dry mouth before responding. "Because now I, too, know what it means to have a cousin in the hands of my worst enemy. And I cannot say I wish such a thing upon any man."

Hector looked as though he were about to reply when, suddenly, his eyes went wide.

"Paris, stop!" he shouted.

Achilles whirled around, following the prince's gaze just in time to see Paris, Hector's younger brother, lowering a strung bow that had been aimed squarely at him.

"Going to shoot me in the back, were you, boy?" he growled, but Hector intervened before his brother could retaliate.

"Paris, it's all right," he urged his sibling. "We're leaving."

The elder prince then attempted to rise unsteadily to his feet, and a very confused Paris hurried over to help him, brushing past the Myrmidon commander as he went.

"Be careful of Gil-galad," Hector cautioned when he was upright, turning back to Achilles. "If you come to him brandishing a sword, you can expect to be met with nothing less. And I can assure you, it is not advisable to anger him. He will listen to reason, Achilles, but only if you come with that same intent. And do not try to deceive him – he will know."

Achilles once more nodded his heartfelt thanks, for he knew Hector was correct. He could not charge blindly ahead into this endeavor. A sure strategy would be required, and there was only one man he knew who could help him there.

As he watched the great warlord hurry off to embark upon his new quest, Hector turned to his brother.

"Paris, what are you doing here? I thought you were going to stay in the tunnel with the others."

"I was, brother," Paris hurriedly explained. "But I saw Glaucus making a stand in front of the palace, and I could not leave him." The young man sighed shakily, blinking back hot tears. "I killed as many of them as I could with my bow, but it was not enough."

Hector gave his brother's shoulder a comforting squeeze. "It's all right, Paris. But Glaucus is dead, then?"

Paris nodded. "Odysseus killed him."

"Then we truly have no reason to stay here any longer. Our father is dead, too, Paris."

The younger prince's face was pained, yet he bit down on his lip to hold back the tears. There would be a time and place for grief later.

"Come, Paris," Hector instructed gently. "The city is lost, and our futures lie elsewhere."

They had begun making their way back to the tunnel as quickly as possible, considering Hector's injury, when Paris suddenly spoke again.

"But what just happened here with Achilles? Does he actually mean to go after Gil-galad?"

Hector nodded an assent, his face grim. "He certainly means to try."


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary: **Achilles' heel is not his only weakness. An AU crossover between Troy and Second Age Middle Earth. Focal characters include Patroclus, Achilles, and Gil-galad, along with many others from both stories.

**Disclaimer: **There really aren't too many more ways to say this, but I still own nothing from Troy or Middle Earth.

**Author's Note: **Whew, life's been kinda crazy as of late, so I'm glad I could get this up today and not keep you all waiting in horrible suspense for too much longer. A thousand thank-you's to my dearest **Brandi, Whilom, Tori, Blackeri, **and **lozvamp **for your inspiring reviews on the last chapter that made my b-day even more enjoyable! Special hugs to **Brandi **for following thru on her promise to make me "topple out of my chair" as she caught up with her reviews! Thanks again, girl, I was duly toppled! Ok, I'm not sure if any of my beloved readers follow tennis at all, but I was in Cincinnati with an old friend this past weekend to watch part of the US Open Tournament Series. We had a BLAST! I really couldn't have asked for anything better! The weather was simply perfect, while word reached me that it was cold and rainy back home in Chicago. We got to see James Blake win his quarterfinal and semifinal matches, and we also got to see the Bryan twins win their match in the doubles semifinals. But best of all, we got to see Roger Federer and Lleyton Hewitt play each other in the semifinals. Federer won after a really close match and two tiebreaks, but I didn't really care who won because I love them both! Well, now that I'm done boring you since most of you probably don't even know who these people are, I will release you now so you can read the chapter. Finally. Enjoy!

**Chapter 21**

"I cannot believe I agreed to this," Odysseus lamented with a deliberate shake of his head.

"Of course you agreed to it," Achilles said shortly in an attempt to reassure his friend with minimal effort. "How many other opportunities will you have to travel to the kingdom of the Elves, Odysseus?"

"I _could _go anytime I wished," the Ithacan retorted. "But only if I wanted to commit suicide."

Achilles snorted. "I thought you had greater faith in them, my friend. Do you truly believe Gil-galad will have us shot on sight?"

"No," Odysseus conceded after a slight pause. "Not as long as you control your temper, Achilles."

The Myrmidon commander turned away from his friend to look out over the rolling azure waters, finding some small comfort in the cool, salty breeze that caressed his cheeks.

"And you are certain these Elves are not a cruel people?" he asked, still desperately worried for his cousin's safety while the boy remained in the hands of a mysterious foe.

The older king rubbed his bearded chin thoughtfully. "They have had their moments of cruelty and violence in the past, yes. But that was in another age, Achilles – over a thousand years ago. I do not believe you have any reason to fear for your cousin."

Achilles nodded, but the lingering concern on his face was miserably concealed, and Odysseus took it upon himself to change the subject.

"If I refer to this as a 'suicide mission,' it is only because this Trojan ship disturbs me. It is well built, but it is far too small for such an arduous journey! Gil-galad will be gracious enough to spare our lives and hear our case, but the Sea may not be so generous."

"Hector was kind to tell us of this ship," Achilles spoke again at last, "and we shall make good use of it. It may not be an ideal vessel, but you and I alone would not be able to manage a larger one. No one else would join us, so we shall just have to make do with what we have. Or, 'play with the toys the gods give us,' as you like to say."

Odysseus sighed, barely suppressing a chuckle at that particular memory. It all seemed so long ago now…

"I suppose if we do make it safely to Lindon, the effort will be well spent. But all the same, Achilles, I had so looked forward to going home after the war was over."

"I'm sure you did," Achilles acknowledged. "After all, you have a wife and son home waiting for you. But if we cannot find Patroclus, I will have nothing to go home to whatsoever; and so I must thank you again, Odysseus, for delaying the reunion with your family. Yet it is never quite clear what the gods have in store for us. Who knows? It might have taken you just as long to get home if you had left straight from Troy as it will with this detour."

Though evidently amused by the comment, his comrade still looked skeptical. "I highly doubt it, my friend. That would never happen unless I was shipwrecked, attacked by monsters, held captive by a sea goddess on some enchanted island, and Zeus only knows what else."

The men laughed then, and Achilles clapped his old friend on the shoulder as the two of them enjoyed at least one lighthearted moment together on their journey to the chief Elven realm of Lindon.

* * *

Exhaustion. That was all Patroclus knew as he gradually came into consciousness. He no longer felt any great pain – only sheer exhaustion. He was more tired now than he had ever been in his life, and he hated feeling so weak he could barely move. Yet there was no escaping reality, and it was all he could do to crack his weary eyes open and look around. The youth found himself lying in the bed of an elegantly furnished cabin, dimly lit by only a few drippy candles and the faint starlight that slipped in through a small window.

"You always seem to be commandeering my bed, child."

Patroclus turned his head at the gently teasing voice, at once both startled and relieved by the sound. Gil-galad sat in the shadows by his bedside, the Elf's smile visible even in the dark. He leaned forward in his chair.

"Welcome back to the land of the living. How do you feel now, little one?"

Patroclus tried to sit up before answering so that he could better see his caretaker, but the attempt soon ended when he fell back to the mattress with a pitiful groan.

Accepting that as his answer, Gil-galad chuckled softly. "I am not surprised. You have been delirious with fever for nearly two days now; no doubt whatever strength you had left when we began our journey is now spent. But you will recover with rest and time."

The young Greek closed his eyes and nodded, feeling too weak to even say anything. He just wanted to go back to sleep…

"Here, child, drink this – it will help."

A flask was held up to him, and Patroclus felt Gil-galad's hand lift his head, supporting him so he could drink. He was given only a small sip of the foreign liquid, but it tingled on his lips and felt pleasantly warm as he swallowed. The youth blinked rapidly, feeling an immediate revival of his strength.

"What was that?" he asked, amazed, as he watched his captor return the mysterious flask to a nearby cabinet.

Gil-galad grinned at his inquisitiveness. "It is _miruvor_, a cordial used by my people to renew strength and vitality; and that dosage will be sufficient to see you through this malady, I should think."

Patroclus nodded again, mildly disappointed, yet he trusted that his caregiver knew best. He managed to slowly push himself upright, feeling his companion's keen eyes on him all the while.

"Will you eat something now?"

"Yes," the boy conceded with a slight nod. He had been resisting the Elf King's offer of food ever since his capture, and it seemed utterly foolish to refuse now.

"I will be right back, then." Gil-galad rose and left the room, returning shortly with a tray of food.

Patroclus' stomach rumbled, much to his embarrassment, as his captor set the tray down in front of him. With a sheepish smile and a softly uttered "thank you," the youth ate in grateful silence, returning at once to a restful slumber when he had finished.

* * *

It was early afternoon the following day when Patroclus woke next. Feeling strong enough now to move about, he roused himself up from the bed and walked slowly over to look out the nearby window. A refreshing breeze rising up from the ocean brushed against his face, and he closed his eyes to savor the familiar sensation.

He had been somewhat disheartened to find himself alone this time, but in all reality, he knew he could not be so selfish. Gil-galad was the powerful King of an immortal people, and no doubt much more important things demanded his attention than the wellbeing of a single prisoner of war.

_Prisoner of war. _He certainly did not feel like one – especially not when he awoke in the High King's own cabin and was cared for by Gil-galad himself. Only a week ago, this was the last place he would have expected to be; yet here he was. And it truly was not as horrible as he might have imagined – as long as he didn't think about Achilles.

But just as his thoughts were about to drag him down that hateful road of contemplation, he was saved from yet another inner battle when the door opened behind him, and Gil-galad entered. Patroclus couldn't hold back a smile of welcome upon seeing his captor, a smile which was graciously returned.

"I am glad to find you up and about," the Elf commented, coming over to join his charge by the window. "You are feeling better?"

"Much better, thank you," Patroclus responded with genuine appreciation, then directed his gaze back out the window. They were sailing very near to the shore, and he could see a rocky coastline preceded by a level plain. But the plateau ended abruptly at the foot of some jagged black mountains that jutted upward toward the sky, and Patroclus could barely make out a faint red glow beyond the looming peaks. The youth shuddered inexplicably.

"Where are we?" he asked abruptly, hoping his companion would have some knowledge of the area.

"We are in the Bay of Belfalas," Gil-galad answered quietly, "following the shoreline northward until we reach Lindon."

"Are there any kingdoms or nations here?" Patroclus further questioned, still not comprehending his fascination with the landscape.

"None worth mentioning – at least not at the moment," came the reply.

The ship rocked then, and Gil-galad reached over to grab a hold of Patroclus' arm, steadying him when he swayed perilously. But before the Elf could say anything more, his gaze was unfathomably drawn back out the window, toward the sable peaks. He felt a sort of pull from those mountains, an unintelligible call to which he must respond.

He stared hard, trying to discern what might lie beyond the shadowy summits, when suddenly his vision tunneled, and he felt as though he were being pulled over the mountaintops themselves until he saw the other side with such clarity it was as though he were there in person. And everything assaulted him at once.

_Fire. _The flames consumed him from all sides, lapping at his limbs with searing intensity. He knew it was not real, yet he still felt a physical pain from the scorching fire. He wanted to scream out against the agony, but his vocal chords seemed frozen, and he could not utter a single sound.

_Blood. _The stench of it was everywhere, heavy and metallic. It even gave the air a bitter taste in his mouth as he gasped around the ash and dust of this dreamlike wasteland in which he was confined. He had seen the precious crimson liquid spilt so many times before, and only now, in this place, did he have to battle the urge to be violently ill.

_Darkness. _The sun had vanished, its warmth and light naught but a distant memory, as though it never had existed. It was an oppressive blackness, devoid of life and hope. There was no escaping it.

_Death. _He could not see the corpses of the fallen, but it seemed as though their final, haunting cries of anguish still lingered in the air, and the weight of their passing hung heavily like an anchor around his neck. He was alone. But wait! No – there was one other, a dark figure coming toward him like a shadow in the night.

_Fire._

_Blood._

_Darkness._

_Death._

His senses were overwhelmed, assailed by the volley of pain and desperation. Was there no way out?

_Fire._

_Blood._

_Darkness._

_Death._

He was alone. In face of the oncoming shadow, he was utterly alone…

"Gil-galad? My lord? Ereinion!"

Gil-galad visibly snapped back to reality with a sharp gasp and looked down. He had maintained his hold on Patroclus, his hand locked in a death grip around the youth's forearm. He released the grasp as though he had been burned, and his fingers left raw red streaks attesting to where the pressure had so fiercely been applied. The marks would surely bruise. Yet the boy did not seem to heed the pain, nor did he even speak of it. He only looked up at his captor with eyes widened by fear – but the fear was not for himself.

Gil-galad finally wrenched his eyes away from the boy's arm and drew a deep, tremulous breath to calm his racing heart. But he could not shake the visions from his mind's eye. He saw them every time he blinked.

_Fire._

_Blood._

_Darkness._

_Death._

"I'm sorry, Patroclus," he stammered at last, although his mind was clearly elsewhere. "I'm sorry…"

With that, the Elven King turned and rushed from the room, his young captive's confused stare following his every move as he departed.

* * *

"Cirdan!"

Gil-galad remembered the courtesy to knock only as he was in the process of pushing open the door to his old guardian's cabin, and he entered to find the shipwright seated motionlessly at a sturdy wooden table.

"Cirdan," the younger Elf tried again when he was offered neither a word of welcome nor a reprimand for his intrusion. "What have you seen?"

Cirdan slowly raised his silver eyes to study his former charge. "What do you mean, Ereinion?"

Gil-galad stepped closer, in no mood to humor the older Elf's verbal banter. "You know of what I speak, Cirdan. It has been said, and I believe it, that you see the farthest and deepest of any Elf in Middle Earth. But I am not blind to these things myself. So tell me, my old friend – what have you seen?"

The venerable shipwright's eyes seemed to grow misty then, and he answered in a low tone laced with affection, "I have seen as much as you have, child. And I think that will suffice for now."

Gil-galad held his companion's gaze a moment longer, then bowed his head in quiet resignation as the hard, determined edge faded from his grey eyes. And, upon realizing that this conversation would proceed no further, the High King withdrew from the room without another word or glance for his mentor of old.

But as soon as his unexpected visitor had withdrawn, a single tear streaked down Cirdan's weathered face to land softly on his silver beard.

"I have seen as much as you have, child," he whispered sadly toward the space where his ward and his King had stood. "That – and so much more."

**Author's End Note: **FYI, at its easternmost point, the Bay of Belfalas is very near to the land of Mordor. Hopefully that helps clarify some of the foresight here, but if you're still confused, just let me know, and I'll be happy to elaborate. Thanks!


	22. Chapter 22

**Summary: **Achilles' heel is not his only weakness. An AU crossover between Troy and Second Age Middle Earth. Focal characters include Patroclus, Achilles, and Gil-galad, along with many others from both stories.

**Disclaimer: **Do I really still have to say this? I do not own them!

**Author's Note: **Ah, I'm so sorry I've left you guys hanging for so long! Bad Halo, bad! All of a sudden, writing this story's been kinda like running into a brick wall, but I promise I will strive to do better. And never fear, I have every intention of finishing what I've begun. Even if my updating grows slack, I _will_ finish this fic! Shout-outs to my most beloved reviewers of the last chapter: **Blackeri, Tori, Whilom, **and **lozvamp**! And welcome my dear friend and fellow AcceleRacers fan, **Feenekks**! Luv ya, Schmo chica! But I've deprived you of this update long enough, so I won't hold you back any more. Enjoy!

**Chapter 22**

All was quiet aboard the Elven ships as they continued their journey on to Lindon. Gil-galad and Cirdan spoke no more of the strange incident in the Bay of Belfalas; and Patroclus, although still admittedly unsettled by the event, felt it best not to inquire further. The youth continued to regain his strength over the course of the next several days, and ere long, the wounds he had received from the Trojans were little more than a chilling memory.

He spent most of his time below deck, having truly little desire to see the sun. His greatest comfort now came simply in listening while his captors spoke amongst themselves; for their light, melodious voices and the fluidity of their native tongue were entirely soothing. When he sat apart from the Elves in silence, letting the rhythmic sound of their words roll over him, it would lull him into an almost dreamlike state, a place of quiet peace where he could forget. Even if only for a short time.

But he could not refuse when Gil-galad himself came one morning and insisted that Patroclus join him above deck. The boy shivered despite himself when he felt the brisk sea breeze envelope his lean frame for the first time in their journey, but he could hardly complain about the cold when he beheld the sight that awaited them.

They were entering a large harbor sheltered by towering white cliffs and high stone walls. Up ahead and on all sides were lofty structures, buildings that at once appeared both ancient, frozen in time, yet still perfectly serviceable for living. And even amid the stone of the seaside cliffs, there was no shortage of greenery and plant life, for the vegetation seemed almost to blend into the very architecture as though it rightfully belonged there.

The light illuminating from the sun in the east bathed everything in a radiant golden glow, and the beauty of it all took the young Greek's breath away. In all of Greece, he had never seen anything like this. So enraptured was he in the sight before him, that he did not even realize Gil-galad had come up close behind him until he heard the Elf's musical voice whispering softly in his ear.

"Welcome to Lindon, child."

* * *

The waves lapped methodically against the sides of their ship, yet Achilles was determined not to let the sound lure him into sleep. Odysseus slept only a few feet away from him with his back turned toward the younger Greek. They both knew there was very little physical threat out on the water like this, but so great was Achilles' fear of missing the Elven kingdom that he insisted one of them remain awake on watch at all times. Odysseus had humored him and complied without argument.

Yet as he sat here now, with only the waves to keep him company, the Myrmidon lord found his mind wandering, mostly to places he would rather not visit. He could not stop thinking about Patroclus. Even though he knew full well that no amount of worry would hasten their journey, he could not take his thoughts off the boy. Oh gods, keep him safe!

Achilles' eyes narrowed as his imagination once again ran wild. If Gil-galad had harmed his cousin in any way, no amount of immortal skill would save the Elf King from the wrath of Peleus' godlike son! But even the thought of vengeance seemed dulled now. Warfare had ever been his way of life, and he excelled at it; but he had become so jaded toward it all lately. Now, all he truly wanted was to collect his dear cousin and go home.

He had to find Patroclus. And even if it cost him every breath of life and every drop of blood in his body, he _would _find Patroclus! He could not bear knowing that the boy thought he had been deserted, for such was undoubtedly the case. Patroclus must surely believe that his cousin, his guardian of seven years, had abandoned him to his fate without making any effort in the least to recover him.

Achilles closed his eyes and groaned from the depths of his soul. He would not leave Patroclus again – he _could _not! He would see this fateful misunderstanding resolved at any cost. His cousin had to learn the truth, but there was nothing he could do about it now.

The indomitable warlord had never felt so powerless, so helpless! It was not an emotion he was accustomed to feeling, and he did not enjoy it one iota. Desperation clawed at his heart with a pain he could physically feel, but it would not be soothed. And so the most feared warrior in all of Greece bent over as he sat, hung his head in hands, and sobbed.

Truth be told, Achilles needed the release of emotion, and only to himself would he ever confess how truly liberating it felt. He still sought to weep as quietly as possible so as not to wake Odysseus, but his lack of success was soon apparent when he felt a steady hand on his shoulder.

"Achilles?"

The younger warrior started, hurriedly brushing away his tears as he glanced up at his comrade.

"Odysseus – I did not know you were awake. I'm sorry if I disturbed you."

"Not at all, my friend," the Ithacan reassured him. "But you should take some rest yourself now, Achilles. You are tired, and I will keep watch."

But Achilles shook his head and looked away. "I cannot sleep. He thinks I left him, Odysseus – that I did not care what became of him, whether he lived or died…"

The warlord's voice had taken on an aura of such helpless desperation that Odysseus could not help but be moved to pity for his friend, and he settled down on the wooden deck beside him.

"You cannot be so hard on yourself because of this, Achilles," he quietly told his companion. "How could you have made an effort to collect your cousin when you did not even know he was still alive? What's more, you are coming for him right now, and it will require considerably more effort to retrieve him from Lindon than from Troy. Patroclus will appreciate your devotion, my friend, and I am certain he will understand your delay once all is explained."

"Yes, but he doesn't know that _now_," Achilles lamented with a low groan. "Right now, he believes that I loved my glory more than I did him." The younger man hesitated then, his eyes pleading with his friend as he struggled to find the right words.

"But I swear nothing could be further from the truth," he whispered at last. "I would do anything to keep him safe, Odysseus, and I would give anything to have him back now. The gods can bestow their glory elsewhere! I just want him back."

Odysseus stared hard at his comrade in contemplative silence. This was not the same man he had recruited to fight for the Greeks only a few short weeks ago. The golden, fearless, glory-seeking warrior was gone; and in his place now sat a man not wholly unlike Odysseus himself – a man who would fight if and when it was required of him but who, in his heart of hearts, longed most of all to be at home with those he loved. It was not a change the Ithacan king would have expected; and in truth, he found himself neither gladdened nor saddened by the alteration.

"You've been thinking too much, Achilles," he finally remarked with a slight grin. "That's my job. Why don't you quiet your mind and get some sleep? The sunrise tends to shed new light on many things previously obstructed by the night. Besides, it will be at least a few more days until we reach Lindon, and you will need your strength when we arrive there."

Achilles let out a heavy sigh and nodded. "Very well. Thank you, Odysseus."

With that, the great warrior lay down; and after no shortage of restless tossings and turnings that did not go unnoticed by his companion, he fell at last into an exhausted sleep.

* * *

The Havens of Lindon were just as beautiful up close as they were from a distance, perhaps even more so due to the intricate detail that had been painstakingly woven into every nuance of the architecture. Patroclus followed the Elves ashore, keeping as close behind Gil-galad as he dared while the King was joyously welcomed by the escort that awaited him.

He watched as Gil-galad walked up to one Elf in particular and greeted him with an exceptionally large smile and a warm embrace. As the two friends exchanged words in their own tongue, Patroclus noted with some curiosity that this new Elf, although considerably shorter than Gil-galad, bore a significant resemblance to his sovereign with the same long dark hair, sharp features, and piercing grey eyes. There was a definite resemblance between them, reminding him of the times when he and Achilles had been told that they looked alike.

Gil-galad turned back toward him then and motioned for the youth to join him. Patroclus stepped forward, awaiting the introduction that was sure to follow.

"Patroclus," the Elven King began, "I would like you to meet my dear friend and kinsman, Master Elrond Half-elven. Elrond, this is Patroclus, son of Menoetius."

Elrond graciously inclined his head in greeting, and Patroclus responded in kind. He wondered briefly how it was possible to be "Half-elven," for Elrond and Gil-galad were so similar in appearance that he would never have known there was any difference in their heritage. But at least his suspicions had been confirmed that they were indeed related.

* * *

"Would you like me to tend to him, my lord?" Elrond offered once the young mortal had been escorted to the chamber allocated for him, and the Half-elven was now alone with his King.

But Gil-galad shook his head. "Thank you, my friend, but no. It will not be necessary."

"Are you certain?" Elrond pressed further, a deep frown creasing his forehead. "The boy is not well, Gil-galad. There is a shadow of pain behind his eyes."

"And well there should be," the other interjected grimly before proceeding to tell his trusted lieutenant all that had transpired in Troy.

"So there is little more that can be done for him physically," the High King at last concluded his tale. "My own skills, inadequate as _you_ may deem them, were sufficient for his care. And now it is only a question of his own will – of how badly he wants to persevere in this new life."

Elrond bowed his head in resignation and silently nodded his agreement. He knew his sovereign spoke the truth, but it still went against his healer's instinct to leave the distraught boy unattended.

"But now, what of you, Elrond?" Gil-galad abruptly questioned him. "What news is there in Lindon since we left?"

The Peredhel thoughtfully pursed his lips into a thin line. "Not much has transpired in your absence, and I'm afraid there is little to report, good or ill. Nevertheless, my heart is heavy with a fear I cannot describe, and a darkness I cannot explain. I am glad you are home, _Aran-nin_."

Gil-galad smiled warmly and clapped his kinsman firmly on the shoulder. "I share your sentiments, my friend. And I, too, am glad to be home."

* * *

Late that same night, Patroclus sat alone in the room that had been assigned to him. It was spacious and accommodating enough, he supposed; and while he appreciated the last-minute efforts that had clearly been made to make the room more to his liking, it just wasn't home. Everything in the room was equally beautiful, but he was not comfortable here. It was as though he did not belong, and never truly would.

With a lonely sigh, he turned and stared out the window from where he sat on the room's elegant couch. It must have been about four in the morning by now. He had not been able to sleep all night and had simply sat in the dark, content to watch the gentle rolling of the waves against the near shoreline. And in a moment of sheer selfish, childish indulgence, he wanted very badly to swim.

He felt quite confident it would not be a problem. When Gil-galad had left him here earlier, the Elf King had reiterated his assurances that Patroclus was free to roam about as he pleased, assuming a bit of common sense would be exercised when it came to locked doors and the like. He did not seem at all concerned that his young captive might attempt to escape, and honestly, Patroclus had not given the option much thought himself.

Considering how ill he had been throughout most of their journey, he had little idea of how long they had traveled or how far they had come. Even if he did wish to leave, he would not know where to go to return home, except to the South. But there was little chance of that happening now. After all, what was there to return to?

A hard lump suddenly formed in his throat then, and the desire to submerge himself in the ocean's depths clawed at him relentlessly. And so out of the desperate need for something, _anything_, to help ease his troubled mind, the youth grabbed his sandals and quietly slipped out through the door.

**Author's End Note: **FYI, _aran-nin_ means "my king." And that's about all I have to say, except that I'll do my best to update the next chapter in a more timely manner. Oh, and don't you just wanna hug poor Patroclus and squeeze the stuffing out of him? If you do, I have fulfilled my purpose as a fanfiction author. Talk to you guys later!


	23. Chapter 23

**Summary: **Achilles' heel is not his only weakness. An AU crossover between Troy and Second Age Middle Earth. Focal characters include Patroclus, Achilles, and Gil-galad, along with many others from both stories.

**Disclaimer: **Nope, the boys still aren't mine, so nobody panic.

**Author's Note: **I have something, I have something! I'm so sorry for leaving you guys hanging like this, it makes me feel so terrible! But with this story, finishing each chapter is like a victory in and of itself, lol. Never fear, I still have every intention of finishing it, I'm just not sure how long it'll take. Special thanks on this one to **Tori **for helping me out with a couple ideas and also for prodding me on to get this up with an update for her own "Troy" fic. Thank you, Tori-kins! Kudos also to you amazing reviewers who do me great honor by sticking with me thru thick and thin: **Whilom, Tori, **and **Blackeri.** Thanks a million, you guys are the best! And incidentally, **Whilom** was almost right in her review about what happens in this chapter - almost, but not quite, lol. Enjoy, everybody!

**Chapter 23**

The first grey light of dawn was just beginning to break across the Eastern horizon when Patroclus reached the waterfront. No one had stopped him as he'd descended toward the shoreline. In fact, he had not seen anyone at all, and he was glad of it. Right now, he wanted nothing more than to bask in the peace and quiet of solitude, and the Sea had always managed to calm him in the past. He could only hope it would have the same tranquilizing effect now, even in Lindon.

The youth slipped off his sandals and set them on one of the numerous boulders that dotted the coastline before wading into the grey-green waters. He shivered when the waves reached his waist, for the water was much colder here than in the aqua bays of Greece. Plus the fact that it was the cool of early morning now probably contributed to the chill, as well.

Patroclus swam leisurely out into the open water, inexpressibly glad to be back in an element where he was comfortable and at home. He had always been a strong swimmer and had even been able to swim circles around his cousin from an early age. He instantly regretted the thought; for at that moment, memories from his later childhood came flooding back to him – memories of Achilles and himself swimming and laughing together in the blue ocean depths outside his cousin's home after a morning of sparring. Those were some of the happiest memories of his life.

The youth vigorously shook his head as he swam, trying to clear his head of those pleasant yet strangely unwelcome visions of times past. Somehow he felt that he would be swimming alone from now on. Some time later, he suddenly looked around, and only then did he realize how far he'd come. Lost in his own thoughts, he had swum instinctively, pace increasing as he went, and now he was quite a distance from the rocky shore.

He should probably be heading back now. He wasn't sure how long he had been out, but it was most likely longer than he would guess. In the past, he had been able to easily swim for hours at a time; but now, considering all he had been through over the past couple of weeks, it probably wasn't a good idea to press his luck by staying out for longer than he was physically capable. But then again, did he even have to go back at all?

Patroclus came to a halt and simply treaded water for a moment there, looking back at the coastline and then out toward the western horizon. He could just keep swimming. There was nowhere to go, he knew, but did it really matter? He made a few strokes further out toward the open expanse before him, already beginning to feel a weary ache in his muscles that had long been without such strain. What was there for him back on shore anyway, besides a future of loneliness and grief, and never truly belonging?

_There is always Gil-galad._ The still, small voice in the back of his mind made him abruptly stop once more; and as a flurry of new emotions suddenly came rushing in on him, he found that he could go no further. The Elf King had protected him throughout this entire ordeal, caring for him when he was little more than a prisoner of war. And even on the ship when he had lost all value as a hostage, Gil-galad had still cared, just as he did now. Could Patroclus really scorn the hours and the energy the Elf had invested into him and throw away all that his unexpected guardian had done for him by ending his own life here? No – he must live. Zeus knew he at least owed Gil-galad that much.

And so with one last, long look toward the endless Sea that stretched invitingly out into the West, he turned around and slowly swam back to shore, doing all he could to preserve his precious energy along the way. But by the time his feet finally touched the sandy bottom, he was exhausted, and his legs trembled with the exertion of his outing. Breathing heavily, he hauled himself up onto the large rock where he had left his sandals and sat there in silence for a time to rest and listen to the rhythmic pounding of the waves as they broke upon the shore.

"Remarkable, isn't it?"

The sudden voice coming from behind him made Patroclus whirl around in surprise, only to see a bearded and aged-looking Elf approaching him.

The newcomer went on, "It truly is a marvelous thing that the Sea is the same everywhere. Of all the things I have seen in my lifetime, it is the Sea that has been ever constant – steady and unchanging, even throughout the centuries." Cirdan came up to stand beside Patroclus and cocked a bushy silver eyebrow at his young companion.

"You surely felt it, did you not, Patroclus? The harmony within the waters?"

Now staring back out across the waves, Patroclus nodded. "I did," he confessed quietly. "It almost felt like I was back home again – except the water is colder here."

Cirdan chuckled softly beneath his beard. "The water warms with the summer months, but it is cold most of the year. But if you are at all like me, a bit of cold will not hinder you from indulging in the beauty of the Sea."

Patroclus glanced up at his companion. "You swim?"

"Every morning," the Elf replied, and he smiled as he looked out over the churning grey waters. "The Sea is the only love I have ever known, and I am not easily parted from her. Even at Troy, I slipped away for an early swim almost every day."

The young Greek listened, intrigued by the other's passion and devotion to something that was not even alive. But then he realized that, to Cirdan, the Sea was indeed a living, breathing entity whose steady sighs were like the constant beating of a loved one's heart. He nodded his understanding, but was at a loss for what to say. He had spent very little time alone with Cirdan during his time under the Elves' charge, and he could not help feeling a bit awkward now, especially in the silence that lingered when the only sound was the breaking of waves upon the rocks.

"Ereinion would swim often when he was a child," Cirdan continued, perhaps sensing the boy's discomfort. "He had little skill in the water when he first came to me, and some of our earliest times together were spent in the Sea while I taught him to swim."

"Really?" Patroclus couldn't help but grin at the thought of a young Gil-galad splashing and sputtering around miserably in the cold water while his new bearded guardian observed from a close distance, issuing out stern commands for the uncomprehending child's own good.

"Aye, he was really quite pitiful at first," the old shipwright confirmed with a slow nod of his head. "But he learned, although he never has possessed the same desire for the Sea as I have. His interests have always tended more to weapons and warfare."

"Just like Achilles," the blonde youth mused, wincing slightly with the realization that his cousin still remained at the forefront of his mind no matter what distractions presented themselves. He hurriedly sought to change the subject.

"This country is beautiful," he confessed, "more than I could ever have imagined. Do most Elves live near the Sea?"

"Not yet," Cirdan answered quietly, and Patroclus was sure he heard a trace of something bitter-sweet in the ancient Elf's tone. "But more will come as the years wear on. For all of the Elder children are drawn to the Sea, and once the desire to cross over has been awakened, it can never be silenced."

"Cross over?" his companion echoed with a frown, still not understanding. "Where do you go?"

Cirdan then turned his gaze westward, staring out across the seemingly endless expanse of the Sea. "We sail to Valinor, little one – to the Undying Lands, from which there will be no more returning."

Patroclus at once opened his mouth, the enigmatic response having only prompted a crazed blur of new questions that all longed to be verbalized; but the boy wisely chose to restrain his tongue. No doubt the more he questioned, the less he would truly understand. And what was more, he somehow felt that such knowledge was not for him to possess. After all, what did a mortal need to know of the "Undying Lands," except that he had no place there?

* * *

Later that afternoon, Patroclus wandered aimlessly through the halls of his new home after having taken a self-guided tour of the rest of the establishment. It had all been most elegant and impressive, but now he was just bored. It had been many hours since he'd left Cirdan to enjoy his morning swim undisturbed, and nothing of consequence had happened since. There was nothing to do, and he found himself wondering how one day could possibly go by so slowly.

"I know that look. I wore it many times myself whilst a child in the Havens, for Cirdan never was exceptionally entertaining."

Patroclus grinned and happily turned his head to see Gil-galad coming up casually behind him.

"I am rather bored," he confessed sullenly. "I'm sorry."

"There is no need to apologize for that, little one," the Elven King assured his charge while stepping closer. "After all, it should really come as no surprise. But tell me, Patroclus, do you think you would object to learning a few things with a sword from someone other than your cousin?"

The young Greek at once grew visibly more attentive, and he looked up at his captor with eyes alight with youthful hope.

"Do you mean it?" he asked, almost afraid to put the question into words for fear that this suddenly bright moment would prove to be naught but his own imagination.

But Gil-galad nodded a sincere confirmation. "Yes, I think you are well enough now. Would you care to join me for a time of sparring, child?"

A smile broke out across Patroclus' face then; and in that one instant, he suddenly seemed more alive than Gil-galad had ever seen him during their time together.

"Yes, I would," the boy managed through his simmering joy and anticipation. "Thank you."

* * *

The warm midday sun beat down upon the two warriors' heads as they sparred on a grassy plateau that looked out over the ocean, and Patroclus found that he could finally leave his troubles behind now that a sword was in his hand once more. Or he almost could have, were his mind not assaulted with every other swing he took by painful memories of the many times he and Achilles had spent their days in similar manner. He tried not to think on it; but it was difficult when he kept hearing his cousin's firm yet caring voice inside his head, calling out suggestions and reprimands that might one day save his life.

"Achilles has trained you well," Gil-galad commented when they took a moment to rest. "You are very skilled, especially for one so young."

Breathing hard, Patroclus grinned and nodded his thanks. He had heard countless times before that he could ask for no better teacher than his cousin, but to hear such a compliment from the High King of the Elves himself was something exceptionally special.

The Elf continued, "It is only a shame he could not give your routines a little more variety."

"What do you mean?" Patroclus pressed, not comprehending his companion's gentle criticism. "Achilles taught me many different skills."

"I can see that," Gil-galad conceded, "but he has taught you only to fight as he does."

When his young charge still showed no sign of understanding, he went on.

"Your cousin has clearly been training you as though he were training a younger version of himself, Patroclus. He teaches you based on his own abilities, instructing you only to respond as he would in a given situation. But you are not Achilles, child; and no matter how you hard you try, there will always be some things your cousin can do that you cannot."

The boy frowned. "For instance?"

"The lunge, for instance," Gil-galad elaborated. "I'm guessing it is one of Achilles favorite moves, is it not?"

Patroclus nodded, and the Elf continued.

"A lunge is potentially one of the deadliest and surest blows at your disposal in a battle, but only when used with the proper discretion. When you execute a lunge, you extend to the point where you are left exposed; your balance also is badly thrown off, so you must be certain that the lunge will finish your enemy. Otherwise, you will be far too vulnerable at the end of the maneuver, and you will be fortunate to escape with your life. No doubt when your cousin utilizes the move, he succeeds every time and has no fear that, if his stroke misses, he will be open to attack.

"However, you, Patroclus, are an entirely different a matter. Achilles' tutelage has taught you to make excessive use of the lunge, even to a dangerous extent. You are very talented, child, and you will find no equal among young soldiers like yourself. It is the older, more experienced warriors who are of great threat to you, for they will see your tendency to lunge and exploit it in short order. This will be the death of you, little one, if it is not addressed very soon."

Patroclus didn't answer right away, for the dark-haired Elf's words rang a little too true for comfort. Achilles had indeed trained his young cousin to fight like a mirror image of himself, even when it was not the most practical approach, for Achilles had never yet failed in battle. But Gil-galad was right, and Patroclus was no Achilles. It would no doubt mean breaking many of the habits his dear cousin had ingrained into him during their years together, but perhaps heeding the input of another great warrior would be even more beneficial than he had first expected.

And so after a deliberate nod, the youth raised his head to meet his captor's steady gaze and asked, "What must I do to change it?"

Gil-galad smiled at the reply, incredibly pleased by his charge's humility in accepting such instruction, and the remainder of the afternoon and early evening were spent addressing that very issue. Patroclus' fighting style was being altered slowly yet surely; and while Gil-galad was certain that many more hours would need to be devoted to the subject, he nevertheless approved highly of the boy's progress.

"You two should be heading indoors. There will be a storm soon."

Both warriors started at the interruption, and they turned as one to see Cirdan standing behind them, observing their interaction rather impassively. Who knew how long he had been there?

"A storm?" Patroclus echoed skeptically and cast a glance up at the clear blue sky above them. "Are you sure?"

"Trust me," Gil-galad answered in his former guardian's stead while beginning to quickly gather up the equipment they had brought. "Cirdan knows these things. I think he can feel it in those old bones of his."

Patroclus stifled a laugh; but he needn't have worried, for the ancient shipwright was already well out of earshot as he made his way back toward the shelter of his home. And sure enough, within the hour, Cirdan's prediction was verified when dark storm clouds could be seen accumulating ominously on the southern horizon.

* * *

"Achilles!"

The blonde warrior heard his friend shouting to him over the crashing waves and roaring wind, but there was simply no way they could converse at this distance. So he pulled himself closer, clinging to the rails and riggings as he went, until he finally reached Odysseus' side.

"The ship won't survive this storm!" the Ithacan cried above the din as the tempest perilously rocked their small vessel once more, but Achilles would hear none of it.

"We'll make it!" he shouted back in a furious reply. "We have to!"

Another wave broke in over the side of the boat then, drenching both men even though the chilling rain had already soaked them both clear through to the bone.

"These northern gales are nothing likes the storms in Greece," Odysseus argued once he had recovered. "This ship won't hold together much longer!"

Achilles opened his mouth to utter yet another stubborn retort when both warriors suddenly froze, their eyes wide. Crashing right toward their painfully inadequate vessel was the greatest, angriest wave they had yet seen, its foamy white crest the last thing visible as it broke in over top of them.

**Author's End Note: **Ah, yes, another evil cliffie. Haven't had one of those in a while, so I figured it was about time to break one out, lol. I promise I'll do my best to update as soon as I can, but I'm afraid I can't make any guarantees. Thanks so much for your patience, everyone! Oh, and Gil-galad's little lecture to Patroclus there was really just me using his character to elaborate on something I'd noticed after watching the movie however many dozens of times. Ain't fanfiction great? Luv you guys, ttyl!


	24. Chapter 24

**Summary: **Achilles' heel is not his only weakness. A crossover between Troy and Second Age Middle Earth. Focal characters are Patroclus, Achilles and Gil-galad, but it also includes many others from the movie.

**Disclaimer: **It should be a well-known fact by now, but I still don't own anything from Troy or Middle Earth.

**Author's Note: **Don't look now, everybody, but Halo has an update! Hell hath frozen over, people, lol! But yes, I really do have something, and I know it's a bit shorter than the others, but it will work much better this way, considering how I want to end the next one. Big hugs and thank-you's to**Whilom **and **Tori **for their reviews! I love you chicas like crazy! And now there's really not much else to say, except that I hope you enjoy this surprisingly quick installment!

**Chapter 24**

Wet and miserable. Few words could have better described Achilles, son of Peleus, as he lay on the coarse sand. Their borrowed Trojan ship had been dashed and broken upon the rocks of this northern coastline during the previous night's storm; and even Achilles, invincible as he was, knew that he should be thanking the gods profusely for the fact that they were still alive. Or at least, he was…

"Odysseus!" he called suddenly, coughing up more of the water that had pooled in his lungs in the process. He struggled to his feet and looked around, striving to see clearly in the dim light of early morning as he sought his comrade; but all he could see was the wreckage and debris brought on by the raging tempest.

"Odysseus!" he tried again and staggered forward to begin his search, all the while furiously blinking away the stinging saltwater in his eyes. By Zeus' thunder, he was sore, but he felt quite confident it would all pass with time.

He made his way further up the rocky beach, determined to find his friend; for he had little desire to barge into the heart of Lindon without the Ithacan's wisdom and restraint to counteract his own hot temper. But what was more, Achilles had a profound respect for Odysseus, as well as a new sense of gratitude at the man's decision to accompany him on this reckless quest; and the greatest of Greek warriors would search just as hard for him as he would for Patroclus.

But for a while, it seemed hopeless; and Achilles' thorough searching uncovered nothing more than seaweed, driftwood, and a few surly crabs. Feeling frustrated and a not a little discouraged, he rounded yet another boulder and promptly stumbled over a pile of wreckage from their ship. But when the pile of wreckage softly grunted at the impact, Achilles knew his search was over.

"Odysseus!" he exclaimed, dropping to his knees in the sand beside his friend. "Are you all right?"

The elder king coughed miserably and rolled onto his back, but at a glance, it appeared he would be just fine. He squinted his eyes up at the man who held him firmly by the shoulders and groaned.

"How do you feel?" the Myrmidon asked.

"Like I've been chewed up and spewed out by Poseidon."

"I know the feeling – and you'll get over it," Achilles told him with a teasing grin, and the Ithacan glared up at him before accepting the hand that was offered to help him to his feet.

They stood together in silence for a moment and simply stared out at the dark churning waters, grateful to be alive and well, until Odysseus finally spoke.

"So what now, my friend?"

"What do you mean, 'what now'? How can you even ask such a thing, Odysseus? You know what we must do now!"

"Which is what?"

Achilles' blue eyes narrowed with fiery determination. "We keep going."

"Very well," Odysseus reasoned, "and how do you propose we do that?"

"You said we would find the Elf kingdom if we continued following the shoreline to the north."

"Yes, but I meant while in a boat."

"Well, we no longer have a boat, in case you hadn't noticed. But this is still the shoreline, is it not?" Achilles swept his hand out to encompass the surf-pounded coast. "We will continue to follow it, as you said. And we will walk."

Odysseus sighed in defeat and deliberately rubbed his chin, but he knew arguing with his companion was a lost cause. Achilles, in all his blind devotion, was on a mission to rescue one he loved, and he would not be deterred. They would indeed be walking, even until the demigod's own superhuman strength was sapped.

And so, after some more scavenging, they had gathered as many of the supplies as they could salvage and, miraculously enough, had even found their weapons tangled up in a mass of slimy brown seaweed. For that, Achilles did raise his eyes heavenward and offer a quick prayer of thanks. After all, a warrior was only as good as his weapon. And with that, the two friends began their uncertain, yet unwavering trek northward.

* * *

Ereinion Gil-galad sat in his study, staring pensively out the window as night began to settle over his lands. Something was not right. He could not explain the nagging sensation that ate away at him day and night without rest, but no more could he ignore it and pretend it wasn't there. Yes, something was definitely amiss; and while he dreaded the repercussions of whatever evil the looming threat might bring, he almost found himself wishing it would come soon and end this restless waiting. He hated waiting.

He had dedicated the past few days to ensuring that his army was battle-ready; and although there remained much work to be done before his people would be prepared for a veritable war that could easily last for decades, if not centuries, his mind was far more at ease now than when he had first returned from Troy.

As far as his personal preparation was concerned, he had spent several hours each day sparring with Patroclus – more time than he should have been devoting, perhaps. But in his mind, it was well worth every second, for the boy was noticeably improving every day. He was still young – by the Valar, so very young – but he would one day come into his place as an able warrior. All it would take was time.

"Gil-galad?"

The raven-haired Elf turned his head at the softly-spoken interruption and motioned for his young visitor to join him. Patroclus silently nodded his thanks and took a seat beside his immortal captor, looking more than a bit anxious.

"Gil-galad," he began again after a moment's hesitation. "May I ask you something?"

"Of course. What's troubling you, child?"

"I…I was just thinking that, if I'm going to be living here for the rest of my life, it only seems fair that I should learn the language, and…" he paused again and looked up at his companion with blue eyes that once more seemed very scared and alone. "Would you teach me?"

Gil-galad steadily returned the youth's gaze, all the while taking in every pained detail of his face. So resignation had finally set in, then. He was pleased that the boy wished to learn, but such study would require precious time. He knew that he could easily grant the boy's request in part by handing him off to Elrond or one of his other counselors who would be far more qualified for the task. But somehow he could not bring himself to do so. After all he had put this child through, it would be the least he could do to freely give him a portion of his undivided time and attention. And so he agreed.

"Yes, Patroclus. I will teach you."

The boy at once grinned back at him, relieved and no doubt aware of the depth of commitment behind that concession.

"But not tonight. Go get some sleep now, little one," the Elf commanded, gently shoving him in the direction of the door. "You fought well in our training today, and I would be most surprised if it hasn't left you very tired."

Patroclus meekly nodded and rose to go; but before he could make his way out, the door opened, and Elrond entered. Fully armed, he marched urgently up to his king and hurriedly announced something to him in their own tongue. By the gods, Patroclus wished he knew what they were saying! But it could not have been anything good, for Gil-galad visibly tensed and immediately began issuing out stern words that could only have been commands. And as he looked on, oblivious, Patroclus was scarcely able to contain himself.

"What's going on?" he exclaimed when at last there was a break in their conversation.

"We are under attack," Gil-galad grimly deigned to inform him. "Our scouts report that it is not a large host, but I fear it will be enough to give us some trouble."

"The army will be ready to meet them within the hour," Elrond added, no doubt wondering why his sovereign was taking the time to update the young mortal in their midst.

Gil-galad nodded. "Good. Oversee their preparations, Elrond. I will join you as soon as I can."

The Half-elven bowed and made a move to depart, but he was stopped short when Patroclus again spoke.

"Let me fight, too," he proclaimed as boldly as he dared and tried desperately not to remember the many times he had posed this very question to his cousin. "After all you've done for me, I would be ashamed not to at least offer you my sword. Please?"

Gil-galad considered the request for a moment, looking long and hard at his young captive, and the boy met his piercing gaze for as long as he was able before finally dropping his eyes. But the desire was evident nonetheless.

"Very well," the Elven King at last conceded with a slow nod. "You may join us, but only if you promise that you will remain as close to me as possible over the course of the battle. I would hate to see anything happen to you, child, if there was a way my presence might have prevented it."

"I promise." Patroclus readily nodded his agreement, and now he was barely able to conceal his excitement. At last, he was going to fight in a true battle!

"Head down to the armory then, little one, and they will see that you have all you need. I will meet you later."

The boy bowed, all but beaming in his excitement, and quickly left the room.

Elrond, meanwhile, took a few steps closer to his kinsman and fell back into the flowing language of his people.

"My lord, is this wise? The boy has little to live for here, Gil-galad. Suppose that in his despair, he intentionally allows himself to be slain?"

The concern in his healer friend's voice was apparent, but the son of Fingon did not share his fears in whole.

"I do not believe we need worry about that, my friend. After all, you saw his face when I granted him permission to fight. But even if you are right, Elrond, I believe it would be the least we could do to allow him the honor of a warrior's death."

**Author's End Note: **Ok, wish me luck on the next chapter! I've been dreading this one for some time now, but I think that once I get past it, the rest of the fic shouldn't be nearly as tough. Or, so I hope, lol. Ttyl, everyone!


	25. Chapter 25

**Summary: **Achilles' heel is not his only weakness. A crossover between Troy and Second Age Middle Earth. Focal characters are Patroclus, Achilles and Gil-galad, but it also includes many others from the movie.

**Disclaimer: **I know it's been a long time since you've heard it, but I still own nothing from the worlds of Homer or Tolkien.

**Author's Note: **Greetings, my dear readers! I must apologize a thousand times for the extreme delay in updates, but your waiting is finally over! And, it has paid off - big time. You will all be pleased to know that "Weakness" is finished! Not to say that this is the last chapter, by any means, but everything from here on out is completely written! Which means you can all expect very prompt, very regular updates from now on. There's some great stuff on the way in these upcoming chapters, and believe me, you guys have earned it! Thanks so much for sticking with me! And special thanks to all you reviewers from the previous chapter: **Blackeri, Tori, **and** Whilom**! And welcome to new reviewers **Lieyan **and** Karategal**! I appreciate all your reviews so much, and now I sincerely hope you enjoy this long-awaited installment!

**Chapter 25**

The thrill of battle was more than he ever could have dreamed, and Patroclus found that the hours of training spent with both Achilles and Gil-galad now consumed him so that he fought purely on instinct. In one respect, it was the most exhilarating experience he'd ever known; but on the other hand, it was sometimes terrifying to realize that he moved without thinking, almost as though we was unaware of his own actions. Now he understood what both his teachers had meant when they'd told him that their instruction must reach to a level deeper than his conscious mind before he would be truly prepared for battle.

But nothing could have adequately prepared him for the shock and horror that clenched his stomach into cold, tight knots when he first beheld their enemies. Gil-galad had mentioned it before, how different war was here than in Greece, but these monsters were like nothing Patroclus could ever have imagined. "Orcs," he remembered Gil-galad had called them. Their thick hides were dark, their eyes red, and their black blood hissed and sizzled like venom upon the ground when it was spilt, rotting away the luscious grass beneath their iron-shod feet. And there was an undeniable hatred in their eyes, such cruelty that Patroclus had never before witnessed among Men and prayed he never would.

Nevertheless, he fought on. The Elven sword and armor were strange to him at first, though he soon found them to be most accommodating and efficient. But perhaps the most stunning of all was Gil-galad. Seeing the High King of the Elves wield his mighty spear in earnest was a sight he would surely remember until he drew his final breath, whenever that day might come. Being in the heat of battle, it was impossible to look for long as the immortal monarch fought, but Patroclus was nevertheless awed.

Gil-galad engaged his enemies with a sort of god-like quality the young Greek had only seen previously in his cousin; and once again, he found himself admittedly grateful that Achilles had not engaged this unequaled warrior in mortal combat. But needless to say, with Gil-galad at the head of their host, Patroclus saw no way that they could fail.

And remembering the promise he had made his new guardian prior to the battle, he tried as best he could to stay close to Gil-galad; but soon the mayhem of the battle became too much, and he found to his growing horror that they were slowly drifting apart. The faceless tides of Elves and Orcs gradually pushed him further back until he was forced over the top of a nearby hill, and the Elven King disappeared from his view entirely.

"Gil-galad!" he called, half frantic when he saw two of his Elven comrades fall to the dust beside him. For a moment, he stared down unwaveringly at the mangled and dismembered bodies, his heart all the while pounding madly against his ribs.

How had this happened? How was he suddenly all alone, with none but these demonic monsters on all sides?

"Patroclus!"

The boy jerked his head back up and looked around, having heard his name being shouted from a distance, yet the call was disembodied coming from amidst the carnage and the chaos. Patroclus vaguely recognized Gil-galad's voice and knew that indeed it could have been no other; but the Elf King was lost to his sight, and he was on his own with the enemy rapidly closing in around him.

* * *

"We're getting close now," Odysseus told his companion with forced cheer.

Thus far, the two Greek kings had seen little more than grey ocean waters on their left, high rocky cliffs upon their right, and cold, brown sand beneath their feet. But finally, there were signs of civilization – little things in the stone formations and the water that Achilles would easily have missed, but Odysseus, with all his knowledge of the Elves, was able to note.

"How much farther?" the Myrmidon asked, his patience wearing thin. They had been walking for over three days now, and he would continue walking for as long as was necessary to reach his cousin. But even so, he was convinced that the sooner they could reach Lindon, the better.

Odysseus answered him, "I expect we'll come across a city within a few hours, at the most."

"Good."

The Ithacan's prediction proved correct, and after only two more hours of vigorous trekking across the hard-packed sand, they were drawn toward the lights of civilization not far off in the distance and could make out the frames of tall buildings silhouetted against the grey early morning sky. Achilles stopped to stare for a moment, and Odysseus came up beside him.

"Lindon," the elder breathed. "We've made it."

Achilles' eyes narrowed. "Then let's not waste any more time. Come, Odysseus!"

But at that moment, a piercing shriek was heard just up ahead of them, and from around a nearby hill of boulders on their right, there came a swarm of beings, all clad in black armor and with weapons drawn. Their blood-chilling screams escalated as they drew nearer to the two Greeks, who were all but frozen in place where they stood upon the beach.

But Achilles had seen too many battles in his years to be long intimidated by even the soulless, bloodthirsty monsters that now assailed them. As the first of the creatures reached them, the great Greek hero drew his sword and proceeded to make short work of his opponents. Within seconds, half a dozen of them lay dead at his feet, and the others had wisely run off.

Achilles poked curiously at one of the corpses with his sword point. "What are these things?" he asked of no one in particular.

But Odysseus answered him all the same. "These are Orcs, Achilles. I've read much about them, and somehow they're still uglier than I would ever have imagined."

"That hardly seems possible," the other replied with a soft snort.

"We seem to have stumbled across a battle here," his companion went on, drawing his own weapon. He inclined his head slightly to listen to the now distinct sounds of battle coming from not far off. "There will be more of them."

"There would have to be. They apparently have no true skill, so their only real chance of victory would be in numbers." Achilles turned his gaze northward. "But as it is, these creatures now stand between me and Gil-galad, and I cannot allow them to hinder me. Gil-galad is my key to finding Patroclus, Odysseus, and I have not come this far only to be thwarted here."

And so they pressed on up the hill in the direction of the battle, Achilles efficiently eradicating the Orcs that were foolish enough to cross his path, and Odysseus finishing off any straggling survivors that were left in the demigod's vengeful wake.

* * *

Allowing the hours of training to consume him once more, Patroclus struck out into the fray, felling three of the black-skinned monsters before his mind even had time to register the movements. Then a sixth sense, a warrior's sense that he had hitherto only heard of but never experienced, alerted him to danger from behind, and he whirled around to face two more Orcs, his Elven sword swiftly decapitating the nearest in one clean stroke.

But the one remaining Orc held back slightly, drawing the youth forward. Patroclus instinctively lunged toward the creature, this one easily a head taller than all the rest; but a flare of warning went off in the back of his mind, and he frantically pulled out of the lunge at the last possible moment. Gil-galad's fervent teaching barely managed to snatch him back from the gates of Hades in time, but Patroclus could not evade the Orc chieftain's blade entirely.

"Ah!" the youth cried aloud as a blinding flash of hot pain stabbed into his left forearm. He pulled away just as his opponent leveled another swing at him, this one meant to take his head clear off his shoulders; but he ducked to save himself and quickly resumed his battle stance. He coolly stared down his enemy, despite his racing heart, all the while recalling how both Gil-galad and his cousin had told him that intimidation was often as effective a strategy as any.

The red-eyed monster across from him grinned cruelly, and Patroclus strove to ignore the feeling of hot blood running down his arm. The wound did not feel too severe, but there was no time to check. Adrenaline would have to see him through the remainder of this fight. He swallowed hard and hurriedly wracked his mind for a new approach. Clearly, this Orc chieftain was the incarnate realization of all the fears Gil-galad had entertained for his young pupil. The creature knew that Patroclus would lunge in an attempt to end the conflict quickly and deliver the majority of his blows from above, as Achilles had long trained him to do. But perhaps Patroclus could use that weakness to his own advantage now?

He suddenly stepped forward with far more boldness than he truly felt, twirling his sword once in his blessedly uninjured right hand. His opponent snarled and closed the gap between them with two long strides of his own, vermilion eyes alight in their insatiable blood-lust. Weapons met with an angry clash as Patroclus' own elegant sword collided against his foe's crude black saber. After a few more uneventful exchanges, the youth feigned an aggressive blow at the Orc's head. Fully anticipating it, the creature followed his lead eagerly, only to realize too late that Patroclus had stopped the attack short and had already dropped low to the ground, taking off both of the monster's legs at the knees with one strong, smooth stroke.

The now stunted Orc collapsed to the ground immediately, his bone-chilling screams an indistinguishable blend of pain and hatred – Patroclus could not discern which was the more dominant of the two. But this struggle had endured quite long enough for his liking, and he silenced his enemy's cries with one final blow that severed the Orc's miserable head from his shoulders.

His legs shaking slightly from fatigue and the emotional strain of having nearly lost his life so many times in one day, Patroclus, son of Menoetius stared down at his vanquished foe as though in a stupor, only to be jolted back to reality by the now familiar, yet nevertheless blood-curdling, shriek of an Orc being cut down near him.

Eyes darting about, he observed that the din of battle was finally dying down. The few Orcs still within his range of sight had fallen back and were already being pursued by several swift Elven warriors who had appeared from around the far side of the hill that separated them from the heart of the battle. He knew he should probably join his fellow soldiers in their pursuit – it would be the honorable thing to do, after all. But no. He was tired beyond expression and had already seen more bloodshed than he could stomach for one day. Right now, he all he wanted was to find Gil-galad.

* * *

Coming at last to the crest of the hill they had fought long and hard to win, Odysseus quickly surveyed the scene of battle spread out in the valley below them.

"Well, there you have it, Achilles," he remarked, gesturing toward a tall distant figure that could only have been Gil-galad himself. "A king who fights his own battles."

"Yes, I suppose that is _one _miracle," his companion acknowledged grimly. "But I still will not rest peacefully until we have found Patroclus."

The Ithacan nodded. "Then I suggest we get down there as quickly as possible."

Achilles' blue eyes grew as hard and cold as steel. "With pleasure."

Odysseus knew full well what that meant, and he followed behind his comrade as they continued to blaze a black and bloody trail down toward the Elf King.

* * *

Gil-galad saw them coming but stood tall and still as a tree on a windless day, calmly awaiting their approach. The battle was over, and the Orcs were now in full retreat; but his troubles were far from over. Gil-galad had lost sight of Patroclus early on in the melee and had not seen him since. It was not a fact he was anxious to admit to the boy's rapidly approaching cousin.

At long last, Achilles stormed up to the Elf King, his anger billowing over him like a black storm cloud.

"Gil-galad!" he thundered, wasting no time on petty pleasantries. "I don't know whether I should thank you or kill you!"

The Elven royal regarded him steadily for a moment, bright eyes narrowing. "I believe you may find the latter to be slightly more difficult," he replied grimly.

"You kidnapped my cousin," Achilles continued, his voice dangerously low, "and I cannot forgive you for that."

"You seemed willing enough to leave him at my mercy back in Troy," Gil-galad countered angrily, shifting Aiglos in his hands. "If you were truly so concerned for his safety, why did you not come for him when you had the chance?"

"I thought he was dead, no thanks to you!" the enraged Greek retorted hotly. "I do realize that if you hadn't taken him, he very well may have died in the Trojan fires that night; but that still does not change the fact that you captured him in the first place."

Gil-galad's mouth set into a hard, thin line before he tersely replied, "I realize there must have been some sort of unforeseeable mishap after the boy was in my custody, Achilles; but believe me, I never meant for things to come to this."

Odysseus, Cirdan, and Elrond stood near each other off to the side, watching in nervous apprehension as their respective leaders engaged in this verbal battle. Clearly, neither of these great warriors saw fit to expend their energies by mincing words.

"Where is he now?" Achilles demanded, stepping closer, and the tension between the two warlords mounted until it seemed almost to be a living, tangible entity.

Gil-galad's grey eyes quickly scanned the battlefield, appearing anxious and unsure for the first time since the arrival of his unexpected guest; and comprehension suddenly hit Achilles like a load of bricks.

"You let him fight?!" he exclaimed, horrified. "Are you mad? He is just a boy!"

"He is also as ready as he ever could be," the Elf argued vehemently. "It would be difficult for him to learn anything more without actually being allowed to fight. I did make him promise to stay near me, though, so I could watch out for him."

"Well, clearly that promise was not upheld," Achilles snarled, "and all your good intentions here now amount to nothing. Where is he?!"

And for that, as much as he hated to admit it, Gil-galad had no answer.

* * *

Elated yet exhausted from the day's events, Patroclus slowly made his way back to the main field of battle. Truth be told, he was in no hurry to return. He felt unsteady and weak at the knees, overwhelmed by the unimaginable and unforeseen exertions of the battle. But the biggest surprise of all was yet to come, for when he finally came back within sight of the Elven army, standing there next to Gil-galad was none other than his…

"Cousin?"

**Author's End Note: **Oh, am I mean, or what? But not to worry, the next update will be soon - probably the end of the week. And btw, if you haven't heard it from me already, there is a new Director's Cut edition of Troy with an extra 30 minutes of footage. It's mostly little things added in here and there, but I thought it was all a big improvement, and I highly recommend seeing it if you get the chance! See ya, everybody!


	26. Chapter 26

**Summary: **Achilles' heel is not his only weakness. A crossover between Troy and Second Age Middle Earth. Focal characters are Patroclus, Achilles and Gil-galad, but it also includes many others from the movie.

**Disclaimer: **I still own nothing, much to my perpetual dismay.

**Author's Note: **Okay, so I had originally planned on waiting about 4 or 5 days in between updates, but last night it occurred to me that if I update every other day, the final chapter will be posted right on Christmas day. So that, my friends, is now the official plan for regular updates, and I trust it won't disappoint. Also to thank for this new approach are my good friends **Tori **and **Kat Carbines **who both insisted within a couple minutes of each other that I "must update this very minute!" My sincerest thanks as well to **Karategal, Blackeri, Lieyan, **and **Tori **for their incredibly prompt reviews, even after this fic had been in a serious slump! I am deeply honored by all your encouraging responses! Now, I realize that this is probably the shortest chapter in the entire fic, but it is centered entirely around the sweet reunion that we've all been waiting for since chapter 8. So enjoy it, savor it, and I'll see you all again in a mere two days!

**Chapter 26**

"Cousin?"

Looking back, Achilles would never know how he had heard that one softly spoken word amidst the dying chaos of the battlefield; but it was undoubtedly the sweetest sound he had ever heard in all his life. He turned at once and beheld his young cousin, alive and seemingly well, standing at the crest of a low hill not far from them.

"Patroclus!"

Elves and even Odysseus forgotten, the great warrior sprinted off toward his kinsman as fast as his runner's legs could carry him. Patroclus, on his part, didn't move a muscle; but his legs must have given out on him at the shock, for he dropped to his knees as though in a daze, wide unblinking eyes never leaving his cousin. Achilles was down on the ground with him the instant they were near enough to touch, and he at once pulled the youth into a crushing embrace.

"Oh gods, Patroclus! Patroclus…"

But Patrolcus did not respond right away, only clung to his cousin as though he would be swept away if he let go and buried his face in the strong, familiar shoulder he had thought never to feel again. Tears leaked from his clear blue eyes and fell onto the older man's tunic, but neither of them took any notice of it.

At long last, Achilles drew back and held his cousin at arm's length, pushing the boy's sandy blonde hair away from his face and laying a gentle kiss on his forehead. He then leaned forward with a deep sigh, heavily resting his own forehead against the boy's. It seemed like an eternity had passed, but they were finally reunited once more.

At length, their heads lifted, but Patroclus seemed inexplicably loath to meet his elder's concerned and caring gaze.

"I'm sorry, cousin," he whispered finally, and Achilles' brow immediately furrowed in a puzzled frown.

"What do you mean?"

"Those things I said to you that night – it was not my place, and I had no right to say them. Forgive me, cousin, I…I'm sorry." The boy's halting apology had come out in a rush, and when he had finished, his head hung low in unabated contrition.

And when Achilles at last realized what his cousin meant, that he was referring to the argument they'd had their last night together, the words stung him more deeply than any wound he had ever received in battle. That night seemed so long ago, he had all but forgotten it.

"Look at me, Patrolcus," he demanded slowly. "Look at me!"

The youth raised his eyes, half dreading the angry reprimand he felt would surely follow; but all he beheld in his cousin's face was warm love and a concern so deep it appeared almost painful.

"Patroclus, do you truly believe that I'm still thinking about that now? Cousin, what happened before is of no matter. What matters is that we're here – together!"

But Patroclus did not seem overly consoled, and his eyes still bore a look of confused hurt and betrayal.

"Then why didn't you come for me?" he whispered, almost afraid of what the long-awaited answer might be. "Why are you here now, when you should have come for me back in Troy?"

Achilles closed his eyes with a low groan and grasped his cousin's slender shoulders. He had known it would only be a matter of time before all of this would need to be confronted.

"Patroclus, I didn't know," he explained in earnest. "The Trojans attacked us that same night you were captured. Your tent was destroyed in their fires, so I never saw Gil-galad's ransom note. I thought you were dead, cousin. But had I known, I would have gladly done all that he asked and more – believe me!"

The grip on his shoulder squeezed tighter, and Patrolcus felt his tears returning as he realized in a moment of precious hope that it had all been a terrible mistake. He let the salty drops run unashamedly down his cheeks and gladly melted into Achilles' embrace when the older man again pulled him close. Greece or Lindon – the place did not matter now that he had his cousin's sheltering arms around him once more. And there he felt his beloved guardian's heartbeat, as strong and steady as ever. As were his promises.

"I missed you, cousin," he finally mumbled into the warrior's shoulder.

Achilles' grip on him tightened noticeably. "I know," he responded simply; but for his own part, he had more than just _missed_ Patroclus over the past weeks. More than anything, their time apart had revealed to him just how desperately he _needed _this boy – far more than Patroclus would ever know.

"How did you know I was here?" the youth inquired as they broke apart, and Achilles answered him.

"Hector told me when we took Troy. He explained everything."

Comprehension slowly dawned on the boy. "Troy is fallen, then?"

A wordless nod answered.

"And you killed him?" he questioned further with a worried frown.

"Who? Hector?" Achilles shook his head. "No, cousin. I let him go when I realized what had truly happened – that you were still alive. He and his family escaped with a small remnant of other Trojans, and then Odysseus and I came here in search of you."

The youth grinned. "I'm glad you found me."

"As am I." Achilles returned the smile and then began a fastidious appraisal of his charge's condition.

"Are you all right?" he asked, and Patroclus was in the midst of nodding an affirmative just as Achilles discovered the blood on his left arm.

"You're hurt!" he exclaimed, his anxiety resurfacing in an instant, but the boy sought at once to allay his fears.

"It's not bad, cousin," he insisted, wincing a little when Achilles tried to peel back the fabric and armor for a better look at the long gash. "It's not that deep – really."

The elder warrior continued his examination of the wound, though, until he was fully satisfied that it was nothing potentially fatal.

"You're right," he grudgingly conceded, then added after a brief pause, "So tell me, cousin – how does it feel to be one of the Myrmidons now?"

A spark of sheer excitement lit up the boy's blue eyes like a shot of electricity.

"Really?" he asked, ecstasy and disbelief both struggling for foremost expression in his countenance.

Achilles smiled with obvious pride for his young protégé. "Cousin, this blood may not have been shed for me personally, but I could never have asked for a greater display of valor from any of my men. In this battle, you have earned your place among them, and earned it well."

A wide grin consumed Patroclus' youthful face then, but Achilles knew his charge too well to miss the lines of exhaustion that edged those azure orbs.

"You look tired," he commented, and the youth responded with a weak smile.

"I am."

"Come on, then," Achilles said quietly. "Let's go back and get this wound cleaned up properly."

"We will need to check for poison, as well," a voice spoke from behind them. "I'm afraid it is always a danger here."

The cousins turned their heads as one to see Gil-galad standing very near to them now, and Patroclus nodded in compliance. Achilles rose to his feet, gently pulling his cousin up with him; and together with Cirdan, Elrond, and Odysseus, they made their way back to the Havens.


	27. Chapter 27

**Summary: **Achilles' heel is not his only weakness. A crossover between Troy and Second Age Middle Earth. Focal characters are Patroclus, Achilles and Gil-galad, but it also includes many others from the movie.

**Dislcaimer: **I don't own anybody or anything - I wouldn't even dream of it.

**Author's Note: **Ok, everybody - the update, as promised. Happy Friday to everyone, and if it's your last day of school or work before the holidays, then congratulations on making it to a well-deserved break! My deepest thanks, as always, to **Feenekks, Blackeri, Karategal, **and **Lieyan **for their inspiring reviews! Special shout-out to **Karategal **for being the 100th reviewer! This is my first fic to reach that mark, so I'm naturally very happy! And I do realize that, since I'm updating so quickly now, I'm bound to miss some later reviewers, so please know that anyone who takes the time to review and leave their input is very much appreciated! And with that said, please enjoy the update, everyone!

**Chapter 27**

Now safe within the shelter of the Elven King's home, the wounded were tended to with all possible dispatch; and once Elrond had determined that Patroclus' wound was free of poison, Achilles had insisted that only he be allowed to cleanse his cousin's injury further. Elrond simply acquiesced without a word and left them sitting there on the bed in Patroclus' room, thoughtful enough to leave behind anything that might be required for his replacement to be thorough. Achilles nodded a brief acknowledgment as the Elf left, then turned his full attention back to his cousin when they were alone.

"How is Odysseus?" the boy asked, hissing sharply as a clear cleansing liquid was poured over his cut.

"He's fine," Achilles answered him, grateful for something to talk about so his thoughts would not have to dwell fully on his cousin's pain. "He was already sleeping soundly a few rooms down, the last I saw him. He keeps telling me that he's getting too old for all this excitement and adventure."

Patroclus grinned. "If he really believed that, he wouldn't have come with you."

Achilles chuckled and finished binding the wound as carefully as he could, taking equal care to ignore the occasional grimaces of pain on his cousin's face as he continued his ministrations.

"This should heal quickly," he said, satisfied with his work. "I would favor it for a few days, but there should be no complications if you do not aggravate it further."

When the wound was dressed, Achilles moved to help the boy out of his blood-stained clothes; and Patroclus, failing to foresee the pending repercussions, allowed him to do so without resistance. He soon wished he had not.

"Patroclus, what are these?"

When the youth realized what Achilles was looking at, he froze, horrified. His bare chest was still faintly shadowed by the bruises he had received weeks ago at the hands of the Trojans; naturally, Achilles had not failed to notice it.

"Patroclus?"

"It's nothing," he answered hastily, trying with little success to shield the discolored marks with his arms. "It's nothing, they're – they're old."

"I can see that," Achilles replied tersely. "As a matter of fact, it looks like you would have gotten them right around the same time you were captured. Tell me, Patroclus, did you get these before or after Gil-galad took you? Because if it was before, some Greek is going to pay dearly for it when we get home. And if after, then it would seem this Elf King and I have unfinished business."

"It's nothing, cousin," Patroclus insisted. "Besides, it…it's over now."

But the blonde warrior beside him was undaunted. "Before or after, Patroclus? Tell me!"

At last, the youth sighed wearily and complied with a faint whisper. "It was after."

Achilles cursed angrily under his breath and stood at once to leave, but Patroclus frantically grabbed him by the wrist to restrain him.

"No, cousin, please!" he exclaimed, having guessed his guardian's intentions. "Gil-galad had nothing to do with this. Please! It was the Trojans."

Achilles paused and turned his attentions back to the boy seated on the bed. "The Trojans?" he echoed.

Patroclus nodded. "Some of them found me that first night."

The youth disclosed nothing more, yet Achilles felt an involuntary shudder pass through the hand on his wrist, and he could surmise the details easily enough.

"Perhaps I was wrong to have spared Hector's life, then," he mused, pursing his lips into a thin line.

"It wasn't his fault, either," Patroclus muttered softly in the prince's defense.

Achilles didn't pursue that argument any further but let out his breath in a quick sigh. "Where was Gil-galad in all of this?"

The boy shrugged indifferently. "I don't know. Probably out fronting the attack you mentioned."

"That attack was called off," the other informed him. "And my understanding is that it could have been much worse if the Trojans had pressed their advantage."

Patroclus frowned and looked up at him quizzically. "You think Gil-galad might have made them fall back?"

"It sounds possible. After all, if he already had you, the last thing he would want would be for me to fight."

"I suppose you're right. But where were you, anyway?"

Achilles hesitated. "I was asleep," he confessed, joining his cousin on the bed once more, and Patroclus chuckled.

"Typical," he commented with a shake of his head.

They sat in silence for a few moments before Achilles returned to the topic of his charge's aged wounds. "Did Gil-galad know what was happening?"

"No," the youth answered quietly. "He took care of me afterwards, and I think he was the one to stop them once he found out."

"You _think_?" Achilles echoed in alarm.

"I – I don't really remember that night too well," the boy whispered.

There was another strangely awkward pause.

"Why did they do it?" Achilles inquired further, referring to the Trojans.

"It doesn't matter," Patroclus answered in a subdued tone, casting his eyes downward. "I was their enemy – what other reason would they need?"

Had he heard it from anyone else, Achilles would have thought it a perfectly valid response; but coming from his cousin, he gathered something deeper there. He reached over and tilted Patroclus' chin up so he could see into the boy's stormy blue eyes. Yes, there was definitely more to be said here.

"Patroclus," he tried again, his voice softer this time. "What happened? You can tell me."

The boy worried his bottom lip in between his teeth, loath to say anything, but Achilles was clearly determined to know. And so he told him.

"The Trojans found out I was your cousin," he divulged at last, his voice hushed, "and they had already seen enough of you to hate you – and anyone associated with you."

Stunned into silence in his turn, Achilles let his hand fall from Patroclus' chin and instead reached out to take one of his cousin's hands in his own.

"I'm sorry, Patroclus," he said at length, still not releasing his hold on the boy's hand. "I'm sorry."

"For what?" Patroclus interjected. "Cousin, we cannot help the fact that we are kin. And even if we could, I would not change it – not for all the world."

Achilles met his cousin's intense gaze once more. "You mean that?"

The youth nodded, and Achilles felt his throat tighten. He would have done everything it had taken to come here, and more besides, just to see the sincerity in Patroclus' eyes at that single moment. It was something he would preserve in his memory forever, even in Hades.

"Now get some sleep," he said at last, sighing and letting the heartfelt moment pass. "You still look exhausted."

Patroclus grinned at him and was only too happy to comply. He lay down, shut his eyes, and within moments was lost to the world of waking.

* * *

Patroclus awoke briefly during night and rolled over in bed with a tired yawn. His unfocused eyes stared off into the dark, but they could just barely make out the blurred edges of a figure sitting by his bedside in the blackness. His first instincts told him it was Gil-galad, and he was about to call the Elven King's name; yet his voice faltered as memories of the previous day came rushing back to him.

"Achilles?" he called sleepily, now knowing that his mysterious companion in the dark could only be his cousin. "What are you doing here? Is something wrong?"

"No," came the older man's disembodied reply. "Nothing's wrong."

"Aren't you tired?"

There was a faint laugh. "Yes."

"Then why are you still here?"

Achilles leaned forward where he sat so that the faint stream of moonlight seeping into the room from between the curtains caught on his golden head and broad shoulders.

"I came close to losing you once, cousin," he said, his voice low and earnest. "Too close. I'm not going to let you out of my sight again for the rest of our time here."

Patroclus groaned and rolled his eyes, even though he knew his guardian couldn't see it.

"Cousin, you don't have to worry about me – not here! How many times do Odysseus and I have to tell you that the Elves mean us no harm? What do you honestly think is going to happen?"

"I don't know," Achilles admitted, "but I'm going to be here beside you when it does."

The boy let out a frustrated sigh. "Achilles, if they were going to harm me in any way, don't you think they would have done so by now? I've only been their 'prisoner' for the past two months. Why would they wait until now, when you're here?"

When his companion didn't answer, Patroclus continued, "Besides, would you really be able to stop them if they did intend evil for us? Lindon is the heart of Gil-galad's kingdom, cousin, and we're grossly outnumbered here. Even you couldn't stand against odds like that for long."

Achilles sighed in his turn and came over to sit on the edge of his cousin's bed.

"I know," he confessed quietly, his face shrouded in the shadows so that Patroclus could not see his pained expression. "But I still feel more at peace when I see you here, just knowing that you're well. I don't want to wake up and find you gone again – like I did in Troy."

Patroclus sat up in bed and almost hesitantly laid a hand on the older man's shoulder. He was not accustomed to being the one to offer comfort. For as long as he could remember, it had always been the reverse, with him seeking out Achilles whenever he was troubled.

"Then stay," he whispered, trying to sound as reassuring as possible. "You don't have to leave, but at least get some rest while you're here."

Achilles looked and saw his cousin nod toward the bed. "Are you sure?"

"Of course." Patroclus grinned and hoped fervently that his cousin saw it in the darkness. "You won't be much of a threat to anyone if you can't even keep your eyes open in the morning."

The godlike warrior smiled back at him and nodded. Patroclus lay back down, and Achilles joined him, lying down behind his cousin and throwing an arm over his shoulders. The close proximity was all Achilles needed to sleep peacefully as he felt the steady rise and fall of his cousin breathing beneath his arm.


	28. Chapter 28

**Summary: **Achilles' heel is not his only weakness. A crossover between Troy and Second Age Middle Earth. Focal characters are Patroclus, Achilles and Gil-galad, but it also includes many others from the movie.

**Disclaimer: **I thought I'd check one more time just to be sure, but nope, I still don't own it.

**Author's Note: **Wow, I can hardly believe it: there's only two more days til Christmas, and only one more update after this. A bittersweet realization, to be sure, but I'm enjoying every minute of it! Many thanks to **Whilom, Karategal, **and **Lieyan **for their reviews on the last chapter! I'm glad you guys liked it! And I'm sure you'll enjoy this one, as well, so I'll stop talking and let you read. TTFN - Ta Ta For Now!

**Chapter 28**

Patroclus woke early the next morning and felt the solid warmth of his cousin's deadweight behind him. Achilles' arm was still draped protectively across his shoulders, but the older man was sound asleep, his breath warm against Patroclus' neck.

"Achilles?" the boy said experimentally. No response.

Shaking his head a little in bemusement, Patroclus squirmed out from under his cousin's arm and got up from the bed. But when the support was suddenly removed from beneath his arm, Achilles shook himself awake almost immediately.

"Patroclus?" he called, the worry in his voice evident despite the fact that he was barely awake. "Where're you going?"

"Swimming, like I've done every morning since I came here," the blonde youth informed his cousin.

Achilles squinted up at him from his position on the bed and frowned. "But why so early?"

"Well, we really have to wait until now to go," Patroclus explained. "If we went any earlier, we'd have to fight Cirdan for the best spots; and personally, I think it's best to just let him be and wait our turn."

"You mean he's already out there?"

The boy nodded. "Yes, and he's probably back by now."

"Where do get this early morning energy?" his bewildered guardian asked with a wide yawn. "What have they done to you, Patroclus? Where's my cousin, the teenager who sleeps even later than I do – on occasion?"

Patroclus laughed. "Well, maybe if you went to bed at a decent hour like the rest of us, you wouldn't be so tired in the morning."

Achilles pretended to glare at his cousin but was quite unsuccessful considering how overjoyed he was that the two of them were simply here in the same room together, talking and joking with each as though they were back home in Phthia, and not in some strange foreign land.

"So," Patroclus began, entirely unfazed by the other's feigned annoyance, "do you want to come?"

"Of course I don't _want _to come!" the older man retorted at once. "Why in Zeus' name would I _want _to be around your youthful exuberance at this unearthly hour? The sun is barely up, Patroclus."

The younger warrior shrugged. "All right, then – suit yourself and stay in bed. But you know, I do seem to recall you saying that you weren't going to let me out of your sight for the rest of our time here. Or was that just a dream I had last night?"

But his tone betrayed that he had no doubt the event in question had truly taken place, and Achilles groaned, running a hand over his weary face.

"Why do you have to have such a perfect memory? Why couldn't you have been half asleep when I said that?" he suggested; but Patroclus could tell that, even at this time in the morning, his cousin was only jesting.

"Maybe I was half asleep, cousin, but I still remember. It would just seem the gods have chosen not to grant you such good fortune," he replied, grinning. "So are you coming or not?"

"Yes, yes, I'll come," Achilles conceded with a heavy sigh and deliberately swung his legs over the side of the bed. "But if this habit of early rising continues, you and I may have some serious lifestyle issues to work out when we get back home."

* * *

They swam for over an hour until Achilles, still anxious over his cousin's injury, insisted that they return indoors at the boy's first signs of fatigue. And his concerns seemed justified when Patroclus slumped down into a large chair as soon as they were inside and within moments was sleeping soundly.

Achilles shook his head, muttering all the while about how senseless it was to rise early, exhaust oneself, and then retire again straight away. Nevertheless, he threw a light, yet surprisingly warm blanket over his cousin and felt the youth's face to be certain he had not become overly chilled after their time in the brisk northern waters – far too brisk for Achilles' liking. But the boy was fine, if only in need of a little rest.

"He is well?"

Achilles started as the still silence was suddenly broken, and he turned to perceive Gil-galad standing in the doorway behind him.

"Yes, he is well," the Greek hero answered. It unnerved him that he had heard nothing of the Elf's approach.

Gil-galad stepped closer. "I am glad. No doubt you can tell that he has endured much during your time apart."

Achilles nodded solemnly. "I can tell."

All was quiet again for a moment as the two warriors observed Patroclus in his peaceful slumber, until Achilles again spoke.

"Thank you," he said, quietly and with some difficulty. "Thank you for looking after him, Gil-galad. I'm sure doing so caused you much trouble."

The Elven King inclined his head in acknowledgement of the thanks. "You are most welcome, my friend. I assure you, caring for him has been a pleasure, and no trouble at all."

The golden warrior beside him stared down at his cousin, and when Achilles spoke next, he was clearly struggling to restrain the raw emotion in his voice.

"I have tried so hard to raise him as best I could. I could never forgive myself if anything were to happen to him."

"Some things are beyond our control, Achilles," Gil-galad told him gently. "But I do not believe you need worry yourself so. If Cirdan could raise me as well as he has, I'm sure you have little to fear in regards to Patroclus."

The Myrmidon lord allowed a small grin to overtake his features, and he reached down to smooth out his charge's still-damp hair. "I hope Patroclus and I can remain as close as you and Cirdan have – even after he no longer needs my protection."

"And I am sure you will. He loves you dearly, Achilles, and his admiration of you is fierce. Just remember, he will do as you do, not as you say – so be mindful of your actions, for you will see them manifested anew in him."

"I know," came Achilles' soft reply.

"You have trained him very well, though," Gil-galad continued smoothly. "I was greatly impressed by his skill, and there were only a few select flaws in his fighting that required urgent addressing."

"Only a few?" Achilles repeated, almost skeptically. "You have taught him more yourself, then?"

"Naturally. I would never have allowed him into battle had I not been well aware of his limits and confident in his abilities."

"In that case, I am glad you at least took such things into consideration," the Greek warrior acknowledged. "But tell me, Gil-galad – while you were training him, did you hope also to become acquainted with my own fighting style, should the need to confront me ever arise again?"

Gil-galad thought on that a moment, then replied, "I confess it is not something I considered until after we had begun sparring regularly; but yes, the thought was very much in my mind."

"And you believe yourself to be familiar with my own abilities?"

"With your own habits and tendencies in battle, yes. But there can only be one way to know for certain."

Achilles raised an eyebrow, more hopeful than he would dare allow his countenance to betray. "I might have hoped for such a chance. But only sparring, of course?"

"Of course," the Elf affirmed as these two legends of the battlefield together made their way outdoors. "Only sparring."

* * *

Patroclus woke early that afternoon, still curled up in the large armchair where he'd fallen asleep. He quickly scanned the room, fully expecting to see his cousin dozing off somewhere near him, but there was no one. The youth snorted softly. So much for Achilles "never letting him out of his sight." But in truth, he was glad. He hated for there to be mistrust and enmity between Gil-galad and his cousin, and he could only hope that Achilles had finally come to realize that the Elves meant them no harm.

He was about to go out in search of his guardian but was stopped short by the sound of approaching voices and laughter – two laughs which he both knew very well. Pleased, yet hopelessly bemused, Patroclus turned his attention to the door just in time to see Achilles enter with Gil-galad following right behind him. Both warriors were smiling broadly, sounding slightly winded and weary, yet their eyes were alight with a fierce joy.

How well Patroclus knew that look! It was the look of what every great fighter thrived upon – of a warrior being pushed to his limits and thoroughly enjoying the uncommon challenge.

"You fought!" he exclaimed indignantly. "Without me?!"

"We _sparred_," his elder kinsman corrected.

"But you still went _without me_!"

Achilles chuckled and reached over to ruffle the boy's hair. "That's the price you pay for sleeping late, cousin."

Patroclus pushed his hand away and battled the urge to pout at the unfairness of it all.

"Well, aren't you at least going to tell me who won?" he persisted when neither of his companions made any effort to divulge the results of their sparring session.

"No," his cousin answered simply, a mischievous twinkle in his blue eyes.

Patroclus wanted to scream. "And why not?"

"Because there was no winner," a smiling Gil-galad at last deigned to inform him. "As near as we can tell, Patroclus, your cousin and I are equally matched."

"But I can say we are very fortunate that Gil-galad did not fight in Troy, for none of the other Greeks, not even Ajax, could have stood against him," Achilles added with a respectful glance at the tall Elf standing beside him. "That Elven spearwork is like nothing I've ever seen before."

"Yet sparring differs greatly from a true life-or-death battle," Gil-galad went on. "If those were the circumstances, I am confident there would be a clear victor between us, one way or another. But that day shall never come now, and so I daresay the outcome will remain a mystery."

"I'm just glad the two of you are on friendly terms now," Patroclus commented happily. He would never confess it out loud, especially not in his cousin's hearing; but in his heart of hearts, there was little doubt as to who would ultimately emerge victorious from such mortal combat. Indeed, he was _very _glad that the tension had dissipated between the two revered warriors standing near him.

The youth then lowered his eyes suddenly and sadly whispered, "But now we must be going home soon."

"Not at all, little one. You are welcome to stay in Lindon for as long as you like, as far as I am concerned," Gil-galad told him. "And furthermore, I would encourage it. Achilles and Odysseus have endured a grueling journey to even come here, and I see no need whatsoever to send them out again so soon. Stay here a while and recover your strength before you journey home; you will need it."

"You are right," Achilles agreed, nodding. "Thank you."

"And it would seem I owe you my thanks as well, son of Peleus," the Elf remarked, turning to regard him. "For whether or not you were aware of it at the time, you and Odysseus actually came across a division of Orcs separate from our enemy's main host – one meant to come up in secret along the beach and attack us from the rear. Without your efforts, that battle would have easily lasted far longer, and with much higher casualties."

Patroclus then spoke up, "But Lindon is safe now, right?"

Gil-galad smiled at him sadly. "I am afraid not, child. The conflict you have witnessed was little more than a preemptive strike by our enemies to test our readiness. It is a battle we have won, thankfully, but the war itself is still to come."

"Then let us stay and help you again," Achilles offered at once. "Reluctant as I may be to admit it, Gil-galad, I owe you my cousin's life. It would be cowardly of me not to at least offer up my services in return, for there is no honor in abandoning a friend in need."

"It is a generous offer, my friend, and I thank you for it. But I'm afraid I cannot accept it, for your own sake."

"What do you mean?" Patroclus questioned, as equally confused as his cousin.

The Elf shook his dark head and explained, "You forget that our wars are not like yours. It will be many years – decades, perhaps even centuries – before this war is ended, and I am quite certain it will likewise be many years before our enemy reveals himself again. War is indeed inevitable, but it would not be fair of me to ask you to stay and fight when you may very possibly live the rest of your mortal lives without seeing another battle in this place."

The Greek cousins exchanged looks for a moment before Achilles slowly nodded and answered for them both. "Very well. We understand."

"Then I am glad, although I still hope you will remain in Lindon for a time before returning home."

"I hope so, too," Patroclus agreed with a glance at his cousin. "But who is your enemy in this, Gil-galad? Surely those monsters we fought were not acting entirely on their own initiative."

"Indeed, child, they are not." The Elf King paused, and his gaze was unconsciously drawn to the East. "I cannot yet say for certain who so opposes us, but I can guess well enough. And if my guess is correct, he will not be easily defeated – just as the one before him was not."

**Author's End Note: **As my fellow Tolkien readers have probably noted by now, most of my references to the historical events of Middle Earth have been just that - references, with no real detail provided. So any of you devout Tolkien fans like myself will no doubt pick up on all of those and be able to fill in the gaps yourself; but if any of you reading this fic primarily for the Troy aspect of it find yourselves intrigued or curious about anything I've mentioned relating to Tolkien, please don't hesitate to ask me about it! I'd be only too happy to provide you with a nice long list of recommended reading...or I could just write a quick PM to answer your question and make it as painless for you as possible, lol. So, everyone, I will see you in two days at the next - and sadly, the last - chapter of "Weakness."


	29. Chapter: The Last

**Summary: **Achilles' heel is not his only weakness. A crossover between Troy and Second Age Middle Earth. Focal characters are Patroclus, Achilles and Gil-galad, but it also includes many others from the movie.

**Disclaimer: **For the last time - Sniffles - I own nothing. And the little script near the end, I took from the "Fellowship of the Ring" soundtrack.

**Author's Note: **Wow, everybody, I can't believe we're finally here. This really is the last chapter. I mean, I knew all along that I would ultimately finish this story, but it's still a very bittersweet moment. But I simply cannot conclude this fic without special mentions to my dear friends **Tori **and **Feenekks **as well as to my sister **Hannah**, all of whom had major roles in the development of this fanfic, even if it was just letting me bounce ideas off them. Thanks so much, chicas! Thank you's also to **Blackeri, Karategal, **and our newest reviewer, **Redone** for their comments on the last chapter! Of course, I'm indebted to everyone who's reviewed this story and helped me along with their encouragement! This fic wouldn't be what it is today without you guys, so Thank You one and all! This last chapter is my gift to all of you who have come with me on this fantastic adventure - your company has truly been the most enjoyable aspect along the way! I love you all, and I sincerely hope you have a very **Merry Christmas!**

**Chapter: The Last**

The following morning unfolded very much like the one before it. Patroclus again slept after their early swim, much to Achilles' continued bemusement, and this time the older warrior chose to entertain himself by wandering aimlessly down the empty corridors. All was silent and tranquil, until he became aware of two voices coming from a room on his right. Curious, the Greek warlord entered to find himself in a vast library; and the voices, as he had first suspected upon hearing them, belonged to Odysseus and Cirdan.

"Achilles!" the Ithacan greeted him, his dark eyes sparkling. "I'm glad you've found us. Is this place not marvelous? Elrond brought me here yesterday."

"Ah, so _that's _where you were all day," Achilles joked as he picked up a small leather-bound volume near him and thumbed through it, noticing at once that the lettering was strange, and he could understand none of it.

"Can you read any of this?" he asked Odysseus.

"Only a little," the elder king admitted. "Cirdan here has been generous enough to help me find some of the manuscripts written in the Common Tongue."

"I am afraid there are not many," the ancient Elf interjected, "but I do hope the few we do have will be satisfactory."

"And I'm sure they will be, my friend," Odysseus told him with a sincere smile of gratitude.

The son of Peleus grinned himself upon seeing his dear friend's happiness. Odysseus was truly in his element here, surrounded by stacks of knowledge and lore, and he was every bit as much at home here as Achilles himself was on the battlefield. No doubt this one experience alone had made the entire journey worthwhile for Odysseus, and Achilles was glad of it. He truly was indebted to this man, to this great king whom he deeply respected and who had delayed a reunion with his beloved family all for the sake of helping a friend reclaim his own loved one. Achilles would never forget it.

"Royal lineages," Odysseus mused in awe as he paged through an aged tome of family trees. "This is wonderful."

Achilles peered over his shoulder at the document and was mildly surprised to see Gil-galad's name near the bottom of one of the genealogies. Apparently, the current High King's father had been known as "The Valiant". And as he found himself inexplicably intrigued, Achilles could not help but wonder - where was the "Valiant One" now?

"How many High Elven Kings were there before Gil-galad?" he asked, turning to Cirdan.

The shipwright raised his bushy silver eyebrows. "You mean in Ereinion's heritage?"

Achilles nodded.

"There have been five before him."

"Five?" the golden warrior echoed. "What happened to them? I thought your people were immortal."

"We are," Cirdan replied, his eyes growing vaguely distant. He suddenly seemed very old and weary then, in a way even the oldest of mortal men would never know. "Those kings all fell in battle, as have countless others both before and after them."

The Myrmidon frowned deeply. "You speak of death as though it were an old friend," he commented. "But what can you truly know of death – you who do not die?"

The venerable shipwright of the Elves locked his young companion in a steady gaze, and he answered with more than a trace of bitterness in his ageless voice, "We who do not die know more of death than you mortals could ever dream – _because we do not die_. It is a mortal lifetime that can possess only a limited knowledge of death, Achilles, for death itself is the greatest gift ever bestowed upon mankind."

Achilles had no response for that; he could only bow his head in a gesture of uncharacteristic humility as the truth of those words hit him, and he recognized his own folly. Perhaps immortality was not the ultimate reward he had always imagined it to be, after all. He withdrew from the library shortly thereafter and once again meandered slowly through the high, vaulted halls until he had returned to his and Patroclus' room. His cousin was stirring on the bed just as he entered.

"Where were you today?" the boy asked him sleepily. "Not off sparring without me again, I hope."

"No, I was in the library with Cirdan and Odysseus."

Patroclus grinned. "I'm sure Odysseus appreciates that. But did you find anything to interest you, cousin? Something you could learn?"

"Yes," Achilles replied quietly, his voice layered with many meanings. "I have learned much, indeed."

* * *

Time passed swiftly; and four terribly short weeks later, the three Greeks stood with their immortal comrades on the main port of the Havens, and the white ship the Elves had given them sat moored in the water nearby. It was finally time to go.

Gil-galad first approached Odysseus, and the Ithacan bowed low.

"I thank you for your generous hospitality and kindness, Lord Gil-galad," he said formally, then added with considerably more feeling, "To meet you has been the honor of a mortal lifetime."

The Elven ruler graciously inclined his head in turn. "The honor is mine to hear such things said – Odysseus, Elf-friend."

The two clasped hands in a final farewell, and Gil-galad moved on to Achilles.

"I am glad to have met you, noble son of Peleus," the Elf said in all sincerity. "And I am likewise grateful that we met while fighting common enemies here in Lindon, rather than fighting as enemies in Troy."

Achilles nodded gravely. "I agree – although, I still would have thought to have beaten you."

A small smile tugged at the corners of the Elf King's lips, and he did not seem the least bit daunted.

"There are some things in this life that we simply will never know, my friend, and I do believe this is one of them. But you will be remembered, you know."

Achilles blinked in surprise, taken aback by the sudden change of subject. "Excuse me?"

"Patroclus once told me that it was your desire to have your name remembered for thousands of years throughout the generations to come. But if you sought to attain such eternal renown in Troy, I am afraid you may have been sorely mistaken."

"And why is that?"

"Men forget, Achilles, for their memories are as short-lived as their race," Gil-galad explained succinctly. "But we do not. I am sure the names of Beren, Tuor, and Hurin Thalion mean nothing to you. But we remember them. We remember the men of Dor-Lomin for their alliance with us in ages past, and we will remember you, Achilles, who have fought so valiantly alongside us now. I promise you, your name will endure among our people far longer than you could ever imagine."

Achilles seemed to stand even taller and prouder than usual then, and the two bowed to each other, as one great warrior paying due homage to another, before Gil-galad moved past him to bid his last farewell.

Patroclus stepped forward in somber silence, at a loss for words. What could he possibly say to this High Elven King who had so befriended him? He needn't have worried, though, for Gil-galad himself showed little desire to waste time on words. Instead, he simply pulled Patroclus into a close embrace, and the boy who had been his charge for so short a time returned the gesture gratefully.

A few moments of silence passed, and Patroclus' mind was thrown into turmoil as he suddenly realized the finality of it all. This was the end, and everything he had finally come to love was being left behind forever. He would never see Gil-galad again.

His grip on the Elf tightened reflexively at the thought, and he could feel a similar intensity in the strong arms that surrounded him.

"Thank you," he whispered into his protector's ear, and those two words carried so much meaning that only Gil-galad himself could ever have truly understood.

Pulling back, the Elven monarch gently took the boy's face between his hands and kissed him on the forehead.

"You will do well, child," he said tenderly. "Go in peace, and I pray the grace of the Valar will protect you unto the very end of your days. You will be greatly missed, little one."

At that moment, Patroclus felt the tears he had long feared would come stinging in his eyes, and he sought to conceal them the only way he could think of – by stepping forward once more into the Elf King's arms and hiding his tear-stained face in the immortal's shoulder. Gil-galad held him without the slightest protest, seeming almost as reluctant as Patroclus to break their contact. But the parting was inevitable, and Patroclus finally drew away from the embrace, stepping back slowly to join his two comrades.

Standing behind their sovereign, Cirdan and Elrond likewise offered their farewells; and with one final bow to their ageless hosts, the three Greeks turned at last to embark on their return journey.

"Rest assured, our blessing goes with you all," Gil-galad called after them. "And may the waters of Ulmo bear you safely home. _Namarie_."

* * *

Ereinion Gil-galad watched the Greeks depart, staring long after their ship as it sailed south and finally disappeared over the horizon.

"My Lord!"

The raven-haired son of Fingon turned at the call and beheld two of his soldiers rapidly approaching him with an unknown Elf in their wake.

"An emissary from Eregion, my King," one of the soldiers announced, motioning the stranger forward.

"My Lord Gil-galad," the messenger greeted with a deep bow. "I have ridden long and hard from Eregion to deliver these into your hands." He held out a scroll of simple parchment and a small velvet pouch, both of which Gil-galad slowly took.

"They are from Lord Celebrimbor," his guest urgently went on. "He made it expressly clear that they were to be given to you alone, my King."

"Celebrimbor?" Gil-galad echoed, his countenance darkening. "Thank you, friend."

With that, he dismissed the messenger and turned back to face the Sea, gently fingering the pouch as the dying sun sank into West and cast its blood-red rays across the waves. He would read Celebrimbor's missive, but he did not need it to know what the pouch contained; for already beneath the crimson velvet, he could distinctly feel two tiny circlets.

Sighing heavily, the King closed his eyes, and a dark cloud of dread settled over his heart – a cloud he knew would never be fully driven away whilst he remained among the living. Gil-galad clutched the pouch tightly in his fist. He must speak with Cirdan, immediately, for his old guardian's counsel would soon be more invaluable than ever. He had heard of this before via correspondence from Eregion, and now it would all seem to have finally come to pass.

The era of peace following the end of the First Age and the overthrow of Morgoth in the War of the Jewels was over. The time of the Rings of Power was come.

_Out of the Black Years come the words – the Herald of Death._

_Listen! It speaks to those who were not born to die:_

"_One Ring to rule them all,_

_One Ring to find them._

_One Ring to bring them all,_

_And in the darkness bind them."_

* * *

Patroclus stood leaning over the railing of their beautiful white vessel, gazing back toward Lindon in tranquil silence until the Grey Havens had disappeared completely from sight. But still he did not move.

"Well, I daresay Eudorus will be surprised to see the two of us again," Achilles said cheerfully, coming up to stand beside his kinsman. "He will probably think us both shades, returned from Hades to haunt his steps."

Patroclus grinned briefly at that, but his expression soon faded back to one of melancholy reflection.

Achilles' mirth faded. "What's wrong, Patroclus?" he asked in sudden concern and wrapped a strong arm around his cousin's slender shoulders. "Don't tell me you're actually having second thoughts about this? Even Odysseus was ultimately happy to leave; his family is waiting for him, after all."

"I know," the youth replied at once, then paused. "I _will _miss him, cousin," he admitted quietly, leaning his head against the older warrior's shoulder. "But all the same, I _am _glad to be going home."

Achilles smiled warmly down at him. "So am I, cousin." He pulled the boy even closer and rested his own golden head atop the one he had pursued to the far ends of the earth.

"So am I."

* * *

And so one could say that, for Achilles and Patroclus, their great adventure had come to a close; while for Cirdan and Gil-galad, their grandest tale had only just begun.

But that, my friends, is an altogether different story…

**_I Veth_**

**_(The End)_**


End file.
